


Heirs of Durin

by Dragonsquill (dragonsquill)



Series: Heirs of Durin [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Aromantic Character, Asexual Characters, Dwalin/Ori implied - Freeform, Erotica, F/M, Gothic metal, Light Bondage, M/M, Modern AU, Sibling Incest, Vignettes, possible Nori/Tauriel/FC, reupload, still dwarves and elves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-03-01 20:18:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 69,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2786333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/pseuds/Dragonsquill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To their fans, Fili and Kili Durin are descendants of a royal line that gave up the throne, famous for the fact that they use their ground-breaking concerts as a blatant form of foreplay.</p><p>To the members of the <i>Heirs of Durin</i>, they are the ones who made them a family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We Begin Where We End

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE look at this. Just. Yes. Look at it!! My wonderful friend Linane has created several absolutely breathtaking illustrations for this story, and you will be missing out on something gorgeous if you don't check them out as you read!!
> 
> [Heirs Fili and his Violin](http://linane-art.tumblr.com/post/93253786036/this-is-probably-my-favourite-thing-i-have-drawn)  
> 
> 
> [Blanket Permission Statement](http://dragonsquill.tumblr.com/permission)

**Heirs of Durin to Perform with Erebor Orchestra Tonight**

_Heirs of Durin returns to Erebor tonight after a hugely successful international tour. The Heirs’ unique blend of dwarven “metal” rock – known for heavy rhythms with an emphasis on guitar and percussion - elven vocals – high and clear with simple melodies – and classical violin, cello, and flute harmonies has proven to have massive appeal across races and species. Sold-out venues from Lothlorien to the Iron Hills to Gondor prove that Heirs of Durin, the first band to openly combine Elvish and Dwarvish sensibilities - could be a sign of more to come._

_The band is known for extravagant stage shows and excellent musicality even without the full orchestral background present on their self-titled studio album. Heirs of Durin was founded by brothers Fíli (violin) and Kíli (percussion, background vocals) Disarson and their cousin Gimli Gloison (lead guitar). They expanded the band in unusual directions, taking on first the piano prodigy Ori Scribner as their keyboardist. Scribner is best known for traditional works composed in his thirties, and it is his classical rhythms that are credited with the Heirs’ unique sound. They then added Bofur Baggins, formerly Kefurson, once lead guitar for the acclaimed metal band Iron Hills and now playing various woodwinds, and his husband Bilbo Baggins, the most decorated lyricist of the last two decades. Joining them for the tour are Thorin Thrainson (harp) and Dwalin Fundinson (cello). The combination of classic metal music with string instruments created a new sound all its own; but it was the addition of two elves, Tauriel, whose soaring soprano shocked reviewers and delighted fans; and Legolas, a member of the Greenwood Royal family (male lead and bass), not only broke ground musically, but socially as well._

_“This is the first time a band consisting of both dwarves and elves has been so commercially successful and widely supported,” reports Linder Aefleson of Rivendell University’s sociology department. “While some smaller local bands, generally part of last decade’s grunge movement, have mixed Dwarves and Men for modest local success, Heirs of Durin is the first to combine Dwarves and Elves in such an ostentatious and acclaimed way.”_

_Additional controversy surrounds the band due to the wild nature of their live performances. Though all the instrumentalists are classically trained, the band leans toward black leather, vests, corsets, boots, piercings, etc., and are famous for extremely energetic concerts combining pyrotechnics and audience participation. At the center of this storm are Fíli and Kíli, descendants of Erebor’s former royal family. The band’s founders are open about their romantic relationship, and are considered “extremely demonstrative” on stage, to the point of inciting boycotts by some more conservative groups._

_The band members themselves seem unaware of the debate surrounding their music and their band. It has been reported that when asked why they were willing to combine the music of two peoples with such a long and discordant history, Kíli laughed and said, “Because our lead guitar wanted more time with his boyfriend!”_

——

They had it timed perfectly. 

As Gimli and Legolas roared through their guitar duet, Kíli leapt over his drum set and grabbed his brother by the waist. The amps sent the sound of the guitars down through the stage, up through black leather boots, straight to Kíli’s groin and out through his hips. He grinned, wild and feral (a flash of Fíli’s eyes, teasing and dark), leaned down, and flicked his tongue across the black gem embedded in Fíli’s left dimple.

The crowd went _wild._

The roar of screams washed over them, over Fíli’s low chuckle as Kíli pressed along his side, over Kíli’s quickening heartbeat in his ears. Kíli slid his hands across the smooth leather of Fíli’s vest, and licked again, a slow slide of the tip of his tongue over warm skin and cool metal. His hips worked in time to the music, a slow grind against Fíli’s hips as those blue eyes flickered toward him and Fíli’s tongue darted out to wet his lips: a tease. 

“Kíliiii!” the crowd yelled and “Fíliiii!” as Ori’s hands hit the keys and produced a high counterpoint to the low thrum of Legolas’s bass. Kíli met Fíli’s gaze, raised an eyebrow, and earned a slow, mischievous smile of acquiescence. Kíli leaned forward and Fíli curved back, melody and counter-melody, one thigh sliding between Kíli’s legs as he braced himself against the hands at his waist. Fíli’s wrist twisted, flicking his precious violin down to his side with graceful precision.

Tauriel rolled her eyes as she swept by them, but she didn’t try to put a stop to it. She lifted her chin, one arm flying wide. Just as her voice burst out, clear and cutting, Kíli ducked his head-

-and grabbed the zipper of Fíli’s vest with his teeth.

Music pounded, Tauriel’s voice ascended, and Fíli twisted back as Kíli slid the little tines free to reveal toned muscle and golden curls. 

The audience hit a frenzy when Kíli stopped halfway down to run his mouth up the revealed skin – the piercing in his tongue cool and sharp and _for Fíli only_ – along his brother’s sternum to his neck. Fíli dipped his head at the perfect moment, teeth nipping Kíli’s bottom lip and tugging. The beads of his mustache braids slid across Kíli’s chin and sent shivers down his spine to his hips, which moved in a liquid thrust against that clever thigh, a one, two, three rhythm of adoration.

Six seconds to go and Kíli’s lips by Fíli’s ear, “Back in a bit,” Fíli’s low, promising chuckle, and Kíli spun in a dramatic flair of sleek leather coat, grinning as he slid back behind his set in a flurry of sticks on perfect beat. 

——

Two encores and they rushed off stage, high on adrenaline and vibration that had them both half-hard all night. Fíli, protective, proactive, knowing what the stage did to his brother, always found a private spot ahead of time. He hooked his hands in the tight waistband of Kíli’s pants (black denim and practically painted on), and tugged. Kíli followed obediently, trust in each step as Fíli pulled him into the little alcove beside the backstage lighting booth. Kíli’s grin was wild again as he tugged the curtain closed. Fíli smirked back, buried his hands in the wild tangles of Kíli’s hair, and pulled his mouth down into a possessive kiss.

Teeth clicked once over a breathless laugh as Kíli pressed his brother hard against the wall, thigh pressed tight to Fíli’s groin as the smaller dwarf moved liquidly against it (hard and familiar, perfect and too-much every time, but this time – this time, a culmination of a decade of work and sweat and love and tears). “Nnn _fuck_ ,” Kíli moaned as his tongue stroked along Fíli’s mouth, dove in for a taste. Hours of foreplay, watching Fíli’s hands on the violin, watching Fíli play the crowd, all for this: Fíli all to himself in a crowded arena.

Fíli chuckled, rolled his hips. “Not here,” he said, letting go of Kíli’s hair to expertly release the buttons at his waist. His fingers fluttered over the sensitive piercings low on Kíli’s belly. “But you can spread those pretty legs for me as soon as we’re back at the hotel.”

Behind them rolled the roar of the dispersing crowd, high on adrenaline, high on Fíli’s violin and Kíli’s drums, on the memory of music throbbing through the floor. Weeks of this, months, concert and concert until they came _here,_ came _home,_ and now-

“Mahal, yes.” Kíli shifted his hips enough for Fíli to tug down the zipper, shove at the rough fabric. 

“If you can even make it that far,” Fíli murmured, wrapping a warm hand around Kíli’s dick and giving it a squeeze. It rose and hardened in his familiar grip; he ran his thumb over the slick head. “There’s always the limo. This one had a big back seat and I bet if you look desperate enough the others would let us have one to ourselves.”

Kíli could have argued _I never look desperate_ , but it would have been the greatest lie of his life. Desire thrummed in his fingertips and beat in his chest; his hands were already busy tugging the silver belt free at his brother’s waist, thumbs hooking over the waistband and pushing. Fíli arched his back just _so,_ thighs flexing as Kíli slid black material along firm muscle. When Kíli stopped at his brother’s calves, started to slide his hands back up, Fíli wrapped calloused fingers around his wrist and said, “All the way.”

Kíli felt his eyebrows rise. “Here?”

The little grin he received in response, coupled with blue eyes blown dark with lust and low light, was positively _filthy._ “Trust me,” Fíli said.

 _Always, always,_ Kíli thought, because he did, he would, but all he said aloud was his brother’s name, rough on his tongue. He fell to his knees to grab at the boots, toss them (winced at the noise but no one on the crew would come looking for them now), then tugged off Fíli’s jeans (rich indigo, soft and worn as butter) and gripped his hips. He eyed Fíli’s erection, thick and full, felt himself salivate at the thought of sucking him down, vibrations of the recorded music they played as the audience left throbbing through the floor and up into his tongue, licking and sucking until Fíli was shouting for it. 

But Fíli could never be quiet when his cock was in Kíli’s mouth, and so it was no surprise when he felt the hard tug against his scalp.

“Up here,” Fíli ordered, black gems flashing above the tips of those gorgeous, playful lips, and Kíli obeyed. Fíli opened his mouth, tongue demanding as his hands slid to push Kíli’s underwear and jeans over his ass to his thighs. They were both slick with sweat, and Fíli’s fingers dipped between the curves in a teasing touch that made Kíli thrust against his stomach. “Soon, baby,” Fíli promised, and his voice was all sex and assurances (could feel Kíli needed it, knew Kíli wanted it), rough from growling back-up vocals and shouting to the crowd, “but you’ll like this. I promise.”

Kíli shivered, a thousand nights of promises and every one a vow.

Fíli reached up above his head to grab a metal bar. 

“One of the support beams for the curtain apparatus,” he said when Kíli glanced up, and then he flexed his arms and _pulled_ , lifting his body into the air and wrapping his legs around Kíli’s waist. His voice when he spoke was the perfect harmony to the music shivering around them. “Move”: a command and a request all in one.

Kíli groaned, low in his chest, slid his hands under the perfect curve of Fíli’s ass, and moved.

His thigh slid beneath Fíli, taking more of his weight, and he leaned in to pin his brother to the wall, firm muscle and skin slick with sweat. Fíli was hot and hard against him as he started to thrust to a rhythm in his body and in his blood, a rhythm Fíli heard (always heard) and matched as best he could.

Fíli’s world narrowed to the hard drive of Kíli’s body, still flushed and hot from the stage lights, the cool slide of the wall at his back (a little too much and his skin would be tender but he didn’t care), and the pull of the muscles in his arms as he kept some of his weight (trembling through the tendons, slick grip sliding along the metal bar and _finally yes_ one of Kíli’s hands wrapping around them and stroking as their mouths met). Voices drifted from the other side of the curtain, stage crew and fans, the last thrumming chords of recorded guitar, so Fíli swallowed his brother’s moans, sucked silence into his tongue, bit his lip when he felt the little hitches in his brother’s breath that meant he was about to come (it was never more than a handful of minutes after a concert, hard from adrenaline and his hands on Fíli’s body whenever he could escape the drums, tucked in the sides of Fíli’s pants during the violin solos as he rocked against Fíli’s ass and licked the back of his neck; couldn’t keep his hands off Fíli and it gave Fíli a surge of power that turned him on just as much, until this happened every time, rutting back stage, hard kisses and sweaty skin and pounding music and love that tore his breath away).

Liquid heat pulsed over his erection and Fíli squirmed, pulling with his arms, pushing with his hips, a low whine in his chest until clever fingers wrapped around him and stroked perfectly, perfectly (knew every detail of each other’s bodies, could go long and slow – would tonight, when he had Kíli spread out on a bed and begging for it, demanding it – or hot and dirty like this). Kíli panted against his cheek, breath hot against the piercings, an occasional flicker of tongue. Fíli let go with one hand, slid drunkenly before Kíli caught him, bit down on a knuckle as Kíli’s lips and tongue vibrated against the stud, “Come on, come for me, come for me, _please_ , I love you, I love you,” until he was shuddering and shoving away from the wall as he climaxed over Kíli’s fingers.

Kíli lowered Fíli to his feet, tilted his head into a slow, lazy kiss. Then he grinned and pulled off his outer shirt, rubbing over sensitive flesh before tugging his pants back up and shoving the soiled cloth as much into a back pocket as it would go.

Fíli took longer getting himself put to rights, hissing softly as he tucked his over-sensitive cock back in his pants and ignoring Kíli’s low chuckle. “Presentable?” he asked, even as he looked over Kíli’s swollen lips and dark eyes, kohl smudged along the lashline and across one sharp cheekbone.

Always breathtaking, his Kíli. 

“Not in the least,” Kíli said. “You look like someone just pinned you to a wall and stroked you off.”

Fíli grinned, slow and dangerous (sex in the curve of his lips). “Sounds accurate.” He tugged Kíli’s mouth down to his, licked inside and tangled around the tongue stud that had been Fíli’s eighty-sixth birthday present. “And you look like someone who’s going to be begging for _harder_ and _more_ and _deeper_ in about two hours.”

Kíli’s answering grin was distinctly flushed.


	2. This Stranger, Familiar as Breathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The first time_

Only the bravest interviewers asked Fíli and Kíli about their relationship. Most members of the press took on the attitude of “if we ignore it, we won’t have to write about it, and our editors won’t have coronaries.” The handful brave enough to treat them as a couple asked the easy questions, questions that could work just as well for brothers as for lovers: Does working and living so closely take a toll on your relationship? Does your music reflect your relationship? Occasionally one stumbled and asked, “How did you meet?” before their eyes went big and they wildly backpedaled. 

Kíli liked those especially, since he’d usually try to answer over the interviewer’s attempts to loudly lead them into a new question. His responses often contained graphic birthing details that made Fíli, usually silent in interviews, let loose one of those slow, borderline-obnoxious smirks that drove his fans wild.

But not a single interview had the backbone to ask, “How did you go from being brothers to openly molesting each other on stage?”

\----

They didn’t talk about their changing their relationship. 

Fíli enrolled in Gondor University a few months before his sixty-seventh birthday. He went to study music, which their family thought completely ridiculous given the fact that he had the best tutors available, he already held an undergraduate degree from the Erebor School of Music, and his parents and uncle all played (or sang) for Erebor’s state orchestra. Only Kíli knew that Fíli chose Gondor – a university of Men that also took dwarves and the occasional elf who wasn’t too uptight to mix with the riffraff – because he wanted to study elven music. 

Thorin would have a conniption if he knew.

Fíli threw himself into his coursework to the point that he didn’t come home the first summer. Or the second. Or for the winter breaks in-between. 

And if absence makes the heart grow fonder, it was a very different part of Kíli that started thinking long and hard (pun intended, at least in Kíli’s mind) about his brother in those long years.

Fíli called Kíli about once a week, and they wrote or texted at least a few times a day. It was like getting to know Fíli all over again: this passionate adult, too far away to temper their too-close relationship with tripping feet, teasing stories, and mocking laughs.

Kíli called Fíli a few times outside Fíli’s regular contacts, Fíli’s voice confident and enthusiastic all at once, or slow and lazy with sleep because Kíli would call in the middle of the night without thinking about the time.

And sometimes, Fíli sent him _music_ , violin recordings, viola, piano. Kíli would listen to it alone in his room, clear notes through his headphones, and the first time his body reacted – hand around his erection before he realized it, lazy strokes set to Fíli’s violin, an image of his brother’s jaw against the rest – he knew he should have panicked. This was his _brother._

But he didn’t.

He stroked and moaned, bit his lip and imagined his brother’s mouth, his brother’s hands, the slide of the bow and Fíli’s slow smirk under blue eyes until he came in warm rhythm over his fingers.

The next time Fíli called, his voice a little rough from a long day, Kíli bit his lip and pressed the heel of his hand to his groin as he let Fíli’s voice wash over him. 

When Fíli started to send him bits and pieces of duets, smooth piano under the soaring notes of his violin, Kíli felt a burst of possessive jealousy that took him by surprise. It only got worse when Fíli started raving about the pianist, about late nights transforming ideas into notes into sheet music, and every other word out of his mouth was “Ori.” Kíli growled and cut him off more than once, hearing the confusion and hurt in Fíli’s voice (Fíli’s dream taking shape and Kíli snapping at him over it) and not caring. 

He hung up, stomped into the shower and stroked himself off hard, panting into the spray and trying to imagine anything other than Fíli’s hands on someone else’s skin.

Finally, after two years away, Fíli called and said he was coming home for summer break before starting work on his thesis. Their parents were pleased, but couldn’t be there when Fíli arrived because Dis was working with the orchestra and Vali had obligations for recording a studio album. “Kíli will be here to let you in,” Dis assured him, and Kíli could hear Fíli’s laugh over his mother’s cellphone. It sent a shiver down his spine and through his groin.

They were going to have to talk about this. 

Fíli arrived early in the afternoon, knocking on the door and yelling Kíli’s name like the last two years never happened. Kíli took a slow breath to center himself before opening the door. “Fíli,” he said, and then couldn’t get another word out.

Fíli smiled at him, a slow lift of the lips and crinkle of the eyes that utterly erased Kíli’s carefully prepared words from his mind. “Kíli,” he answered, and had his voice always sounded like that? He had a bag at his feet and his favorite violin case strapped to his back, which was utterly _Fíli._ But his hair was pulled up, the customary braids held back in a high ponytail, and he’d grown out his mustache with small braids that drew the eye straight to his _mouth_ and practically invited a taste.

Fíli gave the bag a kick as Kíli stumbled numbly backward, stepped through the door, and carefully removed the violin. He wasn’t-his shirt didn’t have _sleeve_ s, and muscle moved under skin as he set the violin carefully on the foyer table. Fíli hadn’t dressed like this before, free of all the layers dwarves usually wore, his jeans slung low on his hips and the flash of metal against his collarbone-

Kíli had him against the wall without making any conscious decision to do so.

Fíli grunted as his back hit the stone, hands flying out to catch Kíli’s hips. “Kíli?” he asked, and oh, there was that roughness again, the little growl under his tongue.

Kíli licked his lips, tried to find words.

Fíli’s thumbs slid under Kíli’s shirts, traced over the skin on his hips. “Kíli,” he said, and his voice was low and careful, but something trembled underneath, a low thrum of sound. “I’m your brother.”

Kíli closed his eyes a moment, shivered. “I know,” he said, but not _I know, it’s wrong, we have to stop_ but _I know, Mahal, that’s part of it, why I can’t keep my hands off you another moment, why your voice makes me hard, why I want to lick every inch of you so you’ll know you’re mine._

Breath brushed over his lips. “We can stop now, if you want.”

Kíli shook his head, eyes still closed. “No.”

“No we can’t, or no you don’t want to?”

A breath. “Both.”

And then there was a low breath of a laugh, something Kíli had only heard during those late-night calls, and Kíli lurched forward to crash his mouth gracelessly against his brother’s. Teeth clacked almost painfully, his lips were a little too dry, the angle seemed strange (forgot he was taller now, had been for years, but something about Fíli made him bigger than he was) and, _fuck_ , it was perfect, too-hard-too-dry-awkward and setting off every nerve in his body. 

Strong fingers curved around Kíli’s neck, tugging a little. Kíli gave a little whimper of protest, but Fíli’s mouth moved against his, “Open your eyes, Kíli. Open your eyes and look at me.”

Kíli drew back, just a little, their breaths still mixing hot between them in unsteady pulses, and opened his eyes.

Fíli smiled back at him, and his eyes were darker than Kíli had ever seen, heavy-lidded. “If we do this,” he said, his voice like violins, “you have to be sure. Because you’ll be mine, Kíli. I’ll be yours. This isn’t dating, or trying things out, or getting to know each other. This is it.”

Kíli’s erection was hot and heavy in his jeans, he tilted his head back into that calloused palm, lashes fluttering half shut but not quite, keeping their gazes locked. “ _Mine_ ,” he answered, and his voice was a low growl and a pant, his voice when he came over his shaking fist with his brother’s name on his tongue. 

Fíli reached out and, very deliberately, flicked the lock in the door.

The kisses were messy and deep, Fíli’s tongue stroking in his mouth, Fíli’s pulse fluttering under his fingertips, shared moans and scrambling hands. Fíli stripped him, callouses rough against his skin, chuckles against his lips, “Can’t get it over your head like this,” laughing at Kíli’s little snarl of dissatisfaction at losing that mouth for even a moment. 

But then Fíli’s eyes flickered down, over his chest, Fíli’s hands spread across his pectorals and brushed his nipples, caught a bit on the dark whirls of hair, and Kíli thrust against the firm plane of his brother’s stomach. “Lovely thing,” Fíli murmured, and heat blossomed over Kíli’s ears and across his cheeks even as Fíli gave him a very deliberate look and lifted his arms over his head.

Kíli nearly tore the fabric in his desperation to get it off.

Fíli went to the gym every day and it showed, thick muscle under warm skin. He wore several necklaces on leather straps, white-gold pendants caught in the curls of golden hair – a thick amp jack, a disk with the old line of Durin emblem, a sword – they shifted with his deepening breaths. Kíli made a small sound, down in his throat. He wanted to bite them, lick around them, metal and skin. 

Fíli kissed him, flickers of his tongue across Kíli’s lips, then trailed teeth along his jaw. 

His hands were at Kíli’s waist, belt and buttons, and then-

“Fíli!” a shout, part demand and part plea, as fingers traced his erection through his briefs.

“Kíli,” his brother breathed, and there was the first sign of shy uncertainty as Fíli stroked him through the dark cloth. The blue eyes flickered up, and there was a flush across Fíli’s cheeks now, and something like wonder. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Kíli thought he should suggest they do this in bed, that they take their time, because this was the first for him, and he knew it was the first for Fíli without Fíli saying the words, but he couldn’t, not with those eyes on him, and he fumbled at Fíli’s waist for the buckle, shoved at it, popped the sturdy button and unzipped a little too fast – kissed an apology at Fíli’s hiss. “I need to see you,” he breathed, and Fíli’s, “Yeah, baby, I know,” almost made him come right there.

Fíli’s hands were gentle when he pushed Kíli’s briefs down over his thighs, pulling the cloth carefully away from the hard length. “Gorgeous,” he said, and wrapped his hand around it, stroked along the bottom vein with his thumb. 

Kíli’s head fell back and he reached out for anything to keep him from falling over – found Fíli’s neck, his thumb on the pulse-point, rhythmic under his skin. His hips shifted, moved in Fíli’s grip to the steady beat of his heart, the music of nature and blood. “No,” Kíli managed, more a whimper than anything else, and Fíli’s hand went utterly still on him. 

Kíli slowly got his eyes to focus on Fíli’s face. His brother’s mouth was tense now, the line of his jaw hard, and Kíli realized- “Oh! Oh no, yes, don’t-I just want-” He kissed him, hard. “You too.”

Fíli’s eyes fell shut a moment as something passed through his entire body, then he let go – Kíli bit his lip to keep down a moan of disappointment – and wiggled out of his own underwear and jeans, lifting one foot and then the other as they pooled around his ankles, nudging off his boots with the ease of long practice.

Kíli groaned and shoved his own jeans and briefs off with a great deal less grace, but it didn’t matter because as soon as they were clear Fíli’s hands were at the small of his back, pushing him forward, and then-

Fíli’s cock against his, thick and hot, Fíli’s teeth tugging lightly at his lip.

“Move,” Fíli said, with a dark melody in his voice, thick with promise. 

Kíli moved.

His forehead fell to his brother’s shoulder as he thrust against his brother’s body, watched as their erections slid together. Fíli pushed up a little on his toes, Kíli spread his feet, and then it was just –

Bodies.

Rhythms and heartbeats, the soft sound of skin on skin, Fíli’s increasingly harsh breaths against his temple, Fíli’s fingers digging into his back, the cool stone under Kíli’s right hand, Fíli’s waist under his left.

Fíli’s voice, “Yes, yes, Kíli, come on, come on baby, you don’t know how long I’ve wanted to see you like this, come on-”

Kíli came, hot spurts over his brother’s erection and his brother’s stomach. He reached out without thinking, hand slicking over his cum as he stroked Fíli’s cock, as it jerked in his hands and-oh-Fíli’s nails digging in at the small of his back as he ground Kíli’s name between his teeth, slick heat on his knuckles and his hips.

“Fíli,” he breathed, and heard his name in return, felt those beloved hands as they gentled to sweet strokes up his back and down again.

A low chuckle and a kiss to his temple. “Kíli,” Fíli said, and he’d been calling Kíli his entire life – chastising, worried, teasing, playful – but never like this. Like Kíli’s name was a symphony that Fíli needed to write, to pick apart and get down on paper. 

They never talked about changing their relationship, but they never needed to. It was understood. It was music, it was brothers, it was teasing, it was sex, it was violins and drums, stages and screaming fans, lips and teeth, hard rutting against walls and slow, teasing slides of fingers, shared dreams and different interests, brazen sensuality and _fuck you_ , bone-deep love that didn’t need to be spoken but so often was, with affection, with ease, with humor.


	3. Remember the Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Thorin remembers._

Thorin remembered the day his grandfather gave up the throne of Erebor.

He was young, but old enough to have a better understanding of what was happening than Frerin or little Dis. Old enough to be aware that the family had wasted the first thirty years of his life preparing him to be king of _nothing._ Old enough to be a little afraid of what would happen to his family without a throne behind them. Old enough to know their lives were about to change forever. 

Old enough to know the people of Erebor ( _your people, Thorin, to care for and protect_ ) were celebrating the fall of his family with fireworks and tickertape parades, and Thorin was ordered to smile and wave through it all.

There had been no bloody revolution. Thror was ill, and would soon have abdicated the throne to Thrain. The thought of a strong, powerful king after decades with the weakened Thror stirred unrest throughout the city, and whispers of revolution for an elected government, like the one in neighboring Dale, began to spread. Thror and Thrain were good dwarves, raised to care about their people; even in his diminished mental state, often confused and in near-constant pain, Thror agreed with his son that civil war was not an option.

They stood together on Durin’s Day and gave up the throne which had belonged to the line of that name for two thousand years. The ceremony echoed throughout the mountain from hundreds of radio sets, the halls echoed with shouts and laughter, and Thorin’s mind echoed with a strange, blank emptiness as he waved with mechanical precision.

The last great dwarf kingdom of Middle Earth became a representative democracy, and the boy who would one day be king just another wealthy citizen.

Much of the family holdings were donated to the state when the king stepped down, but they had enough left that, with a bit of financial planning, they could live more-than-comfortably for generations to come. This left the royal family – most notably the three children – with very little to do, at least compared to the intense lessons in statecraft that had filled the last decade of Thorin’s life. 

It was Thorin’s mother who decided to turn the royal family’s hobby for music into serious study. 

Thorin had chosen the harp as a boy, the same instrument played by his maternal grandfather. He had natural talent, and strong personal drive, and this combined over time with a deep need for some kind of _purpose_ in his life.

_Our people, your responsibility, a sacred trust._

Year passed, and, as Thorin matured, his purpose became the preservation of dwarven culture in an ever-changing world and way of life. This he accomplished through the creation of the National Orchestra of Erebor, which would one day be one of the most famous orchestras of any race in Arda. 

As the orchestra grew, he brought Frerin’s mathematical genius and Dis’s rich, booming voice into the endeavor. Frerin managed finances, brokered deals, begged and borrowed funds; Dis’s singing brought back memories of great heroes, ballads of the seven fathers, the seven mothers, and the Line of Durin. 

Thorin found the music, and the musicians, and brought them together as part of his grand endeavor. 

The quest to retain his history through his orchestra could have consumed Thorin. It didn’t, not quite. His single-minded drive was tempered by Frerin’s bubbling enthusiasm, enriched by Dis’s pragmatic realism, united for one goal: remembering all that the dwarves had been, so they could not forget who they could be. 

He remembered the three of them, bringing a dream to life.

\-----

Thorin remembered the day his brother died.

The newscasters called it a tragedy, expressions carefully desolate among the black and white flickers on the new screens appearing throughout the mountain. Passenger planes were a relatively new technology, many dwarves were still nervous of it, and this “incident” would only hurt the burgeoning travel industry. 

“We can’t let this set us back,” a serious-faced newscaster said as she gazed earnestly into the eyes of her audience. “We must move forward as a people into the future.”

For the world, it was a tragic byline on the evening news.

For Thorin, it felt as if something irreplaceable had been torn from his chest.

He felt broken.

Dis stuck close to him in those first months, as he growled and snarled his way past reporters, ripped his phone from the wall, and alienated half their fledgling orchestra. It was Dis who called their cousin Gloin and asked him to take over Frerin’s job managing the orchestra, Dis who forced Thorin to take a leave of absence, and Dis who sat silently with him and squeezed his hand the night he finally fell to pieces.

Frerin.

It hadn’t been easy, being the children of a disinherited royal line. They were wealthy, and they were famous, and they were different enough to be viewed with awe, suspicion, or both by their contemporaries. 

Perhaps they had been too close.

Perhaps it had been too much, the three of them.

Losing Frerin should not have felt like losing a rib, leaving his chest cracked and bare.

But it did.

Thorin remembered the day his heart fractured beside his brother’s grave.

\----

He remembered the first day he thought he might heal, when his brother-in-law lay a golden-haired infant in his hands: Fíli, who would carry his mother’s name, their heir of Durin, tiny and wailing.

\-----

Thorin remembered the first time Fíli defied the expectations placed upon him.

He knew on some level that both his nephews looked up to him, perhaps more than they should. Their father was a classical guitarist, good enough to play with the Orchestra from time to time but sadly distracted by more popular music. He didn’t have the sort of focus and drive needed to truly excel at a world-class level, as Thorin and Dis did. 

So it had been Thorin who placed the Fíli’s first violin in his hands, Thorin who had taught him about building callouses and standing properly, Thorin who had enlisted the greatest violinists in Erebor as his nephew’s tutors when it became clear that Fíli had the interest and talent needed to be world-renowned one day. 

Thorin never intended to spend more time with Fíli than Vali did, but the boy had talent. That couldn’t be allowed to languish learning folk tunes and dance songs. No, Fíli had the aptitude and the intelligence to not only play in the orchestra but perhaps someday _lead_ it. 

Fíli could ensure the orchestra’s future.

Kíli had talent too, and could usually be seen shadowing his brother’s footsteps, but while Dis’s younger son would learn the basics of the classical instruments placed in his hands, Kíli always ended the day at a rock drum set, beating out rhythms with wild abandon. 

No, while both boys were gifted, it was Fíli who would be his heir, and keep Erebor Orchestra alive. 

And Fíli seemed to agree. He learned viola and guitar, piano, harp, and of course, the violin. By the time he was thirty, Fíli was composing – not brilliant pieces, but passable. He performed with the orchestra for the first time at forty-one, and by the time he was fifty, Fíli had a near-encyclopedic knowledge of dwarf musical history and theory. The only time he abandoned his study of music was to spend time with Kíli and their handful of friends, tearing around the halls like hooligans and making people complain, laugh, or both. If Thorin protested this time away from his studies, Dis would just remind him of their own youth, of the three of them clambering all over the mountain, and it was enough to silence his tongue for a time. 

Because of all this, Thorin could only be shocked when his nephew came to inform him – not ask, no, not in that tone, but to _inform_ – that Fíli would be studying music and earning his advanced degree at the University of Gondor.

“That’s a _Man’s_ university,” Thorin growled. 

“It is,” Fíli agreed, standing straight before Thorin’s desk in the office behind Erebor’s great theater. He looked stiff and uncomfortable, like a dwarf expecting a fight; usually, Fíli’s stance was loose and a touch arrogant. 

“You can study with the greatest musicians in the world here.”

“The greatest dwarf musicians, yes, and I have, for years.” Fíli lifted his chin (small, like his father, though his features were similar to Thorin’s, for all that people didn’t notice it because of the lad’s coloring). “I want to study different music and different ideas. I’ve already been accepted. I just came by to tell you my decision personally.”

Thorin tried to talk him out of it, of course. He told him there wasn’t anything he could learn in Gondor that he couldn’t learn in Erebor. He told him his mother would miss him. He told him his tutors would be disappointed. He told him that his brother would be lonely. This was the only time he saw a flicker in the lad’s resolve, his steady eyes darting around the room for a moment. Thorin pressed the advantage but Fíli balked, straightened up, more resolved than ever. 

Thorin remembered watching him walk away with nothing but a leather bag and his favorite violin, strong and stubborn.

He remembered Kíli standing beside him, looking furious and hurt all at once, and naively thinking he understood way.

\-----

Thorin remembered the night his sister came to him and twisted the world on its axis.

“They just walked in and sat down,” she said, her hands white around the mug of lukewarm coffee he’d forced on her after one look at her ashen face. “They were holding hands. I guess I should have known from that but – but they’ve always been inseparable. Since they were small. And we were all so close, you and me and Frerin, it didn’t occur to me-”

“What happened?” Thorin interrupted. Give him something to deal with, give him something to fix, and it would be done. But holding hands and rubbing backs was more his brother-in-law’s area. 

Dis licked her lips, moved her mouth soundlessly. Her eyes closed, dark lashes a fan across her cheeks – Dis was a great beauty, especially her dark eyes, which Kíli had inherited. She was also clever and rarely at a loss for words. He laid a hand on her wrist, worry twisting now in his gut.

Something tickled at the edge of his mind.

Something he didn’t-quite-know, something he didn’t-quite-suspect-

Thorin watched as his sister drew herself together, as she straightened her spine and firmed her jaw, as she opened her eyes and looked straight at him. “My sons are in love with each other,” she said, her voice stiff but wavering at the edges. Her eyes were a little wide. 

Thorin felt his brows draw together, his heart thump hard once, twice. “What?”

“Fíli and Kíli,” she said, as if their names were a mystery, or as if saying them would make the next words easier. “Fíli came home from university this morning. We were working and didn’t get in until dinnertime. When we got home they were on the sofa, holding hands, and smiling.” Her gaze flickered down. “I’ve never seen them smile like that.”

“They’re only children -“

The sound his sister made was almost a laugh. “Thorin, they’re well over seventy. Fíli’s almost eighty. And he’s always been so certain of himself, and so protective of Kíli. He wouldn’t-” she sighed, took a breath. “He wouldn’t say anything to Kíli, much less to me and Vali, if he wasn’t sure this is what they both wanted.” 

Thorin stared at her. He saw the clear and familiar signs of stubbornness now, settling in across her shoulders. “You can’t be considering allowing this,” he said. 

“You may rest assured,” she said, and he heard the bite in her words, a warning, “that they didn’t ask my opinion about any of it.”

No, they wouldn’t. Not wild Kíli, not confident Fíli. If they went down this path to madness, they would do it without hiding a thing, without considering the long-term consequences.

“Then they’ll have to be separated.”

“Like they have been for the last two years?! Fíli hasn’t even come home for vacations!” 

Thorin growled under his breath. “Then he needs to go back!”

“I will not send my son away! Not for you! Not for anyone!” Danger flickered in her eyes, all the fear disappearing before sudden, protective anger. “How _dare_ you!”

“It’s not for me!” Thorin roared, and in his mind he heard the crackling of radios, behind his eyes he saw the flicker of black and white. His family, his family laid bare before the world. “We’re not royalty anymore, but we’re still famous! There will be reporters everywhere! If they’re not quiet, if they’re not discreet-”

And they wouldn’t be, they wouldn’t be. 

He’d never considered this, never, but now it lay behind him in a million looks and a million touches, and that moment, that one moment when Fíli wavered before Thorin’s arguments about Gondor.

“Then I will love them!” Dis’s eyes blazed, and he’d said all the wrong things. She’d come in worried and terrified, but now she was furious, furious at him and blazing and protective. “I will love them! And Vali! And if you – if you try to-” she choked on the words and her dark eyes were bright, too bright. 

“Dis-”

“I’ll love them,” she said, then whispered, “I’ll love them.” She shivered, wrapped her arms around herself. He reached out a hand to her, as she had to him all those years ago after Frerin, but she jerked away from him. Once more, and her voice was strong, breath from the diaphragm, a voice that could fill a concert hall, “I’ll love them!”

He stared at her, at a loss for words.

“I’ll send them away. Just. Just for a while. A week. Away to the lakehouse. It’s private there. They can.” She lifted her chin, and her eyes were red but her jaw was set; a princess of the line of Durin, and a mother. “They can work this out. And it will give us time to – to get used to the idea.” A slow breath. “You’d do well to think about what you’re going to do, Thorin. Because I know my boys. I saw the looks in their eyes. This is it. This is our world now, and I’ll not have you hurt them. Not you. Not anyone.”

Thorin remembered how beautiful and fierce his sister was when the first tabloid came out about the incestuous sons of Durin. 

_Selfish boys_ he thought, twisting the sleek pages of a magazine in his hands, forcing his eyes away as tears and wrinkles formed across the boy’s faces. _Playing at adulthood without thinking about the family, about the press, about the people, about the constant scrutiny they were under. Never thinking of the future, only of now. When this . . . this twisted infatuation passed, when they grew up, the world would remember. The press would never let it go. The people would not forget._

_They were marking themselves for life._

He though all these things, with something like pity, and something like fear, all tangled with the comfort of anger, but he swallowed his words, and stood by her side.

He remembered Kíli’s wide, relieved smile. He remembered Fíli’s guarded look of gratitude, melting away as he truly saw his uncle’s face. 

He remembered the twisting in his gut, as he realized something had fractured between him and the boys he loved, and he didn’t know how to fix it.

\----

Thorin remembered his nephews’ shared stubbornness (that refusal to fit into the world, refusal to let each other go), years later, when Fíli came once again to his office behind the theater. 

They’d had little to do with each other over the last six years, outside stilted conversations at family functions, and his nephew had changed a good deal. Fíli dressed like a Man (not enough layers, far too much skin showing) but spoke with the unwavering determination of the line of Durin. 

He talked of elves and dwarves and metal and music.

“We want to combine classic orchestral music with dwarf metal,” he said, and it was crazy, absolutely, but his eyes were shining and his hands were moving, and Kíli had rubbed off on him. “Violin and piano as lead instruments, along with drums and electric guitars, but we want a full orchestra for the studio albums.”

This is what Fíli was doing with his time when he refused to join the orchestra? Thorin had offered, even with things so awkward between them. The orchestra deserved the best, and Fíli would be that one day, if only he would stop this nonsense and focus properly.

Thorin’s expression, set in stony disapproval, didn’t change. “It will sound like a _mess_. There won’t be any underlying structure to the music.” He didn’t add that the brothers’ refusal to be discreet – walking around with their arms around each other, soft eyes and light kisses, as if they were a properly married couple and not _brothers_ – would do nothing to endear an audience to them. 

Once Thorin had thought Fíli would be his heir, to lead his orchestra when Thorin was ready to step down. That dream had died out the day he saw his nephews walking hand-in-hand with matching tattoos – the line of Durin! Of all things! – on their wrists (two halve of a whole, and he refused to think of how it suited them). The day he had realized they would never outgrow this infatuation and be responsible adults. 

A mulish look appeared in Fíli’s eye. “It’s going to sound amazing,” he argued, and though his voice was controlled a sharp edge snapped along the edges of his tone. “Dwarf orchestral music is too harsh, but elvish music-”

“You aren’t serious,” Thorin said, and it was not a question. “You are never serious, Fíli.”

He watched as his nephew’s shoulders tightened, so like his mother. “Elvish music is softer,” he continued as if Thorin hadn’t spoken, “more strings and less brass, and it’s the juxtaposition with the harsh edge of dwarf metal that will make all the difference.”

“Even if I was to agree with this folly – which I won’t - I can’t ask the orchestra to play elven music.”

“I’m not asking for the orchestra, not yet. We need a sample of the sound. I want to send it to Bilbo Baggins to see if he’ll come on board for lyrics.” At Thorin’s disbelieving look – even _he_ knew Bilbo Baggins’ name, and he didn’t deal in popular music, Fíli added “And that’s why I’d like your help.”

“Fíli, this entire idea is nonsense. What do you know about elf music?”

“Uncle, honestly, why did you think I went to Gondor to study?”

Thorin felt his eyes narrow.

Fíli scowled, leaned forward, and banged a fist flat on Thorin’s desk. “I know you all wanted to pretend I went there to study what I learned at home, but obviously that’s not the case. Gondor offered coursework in the music of Men and Elves as well as Dwarves, and even some Hobbit ballads. I went there for this. And we’re not just going to have elf music, Uncle.” A smirk flickered across Fíli’s mouth. “We’re going to include _elves_. We don’t have one yet, that’s part of why we need the sample track. The track is what I – what Kíli, Gimli, Ori, and I – would like your help with.”

Thorin slowly loosened his own fist, unconsciously curled beside his planner. “You want me to play _elven harp_ for your _band._ ” 

Fíli’s eyes – Durin blue, and both his parents dark-eyed – met his straight on. He never flinched. “Yes.”

“No.”

“Mother’s going to sing for us.”

“No.”

“Ori’s going to play, and Gimli, me and Kíli, and I think I’d like to ask Dwalin as well. Cello would add depth.”

“It will not happen, Fíli.”

“We’re going to send it to Baggins, and if he agrees to write the lyrics, we’re going to fly him out here to collaborate on a full album.”

“Even I know that’s not how lyricists work. You haven’t thought this through, as usual.”

“And of course, we’d like you to play harp for the studio album as well.” Fíli smiled at him, that narrow-eyed tilt of the lips that made cameras love him, but it wasn’t genuine, and that was rare. “It’s really key to the blending of sounds. Harp is used similarly in both elven and dwarvish music.” The smile softened even as the eyes hardened a bit. “We need your help, Uncle.”

Thorin took a slow breath. 

He loved these boys.

He loved them, and that was why, in the first years of their. .. relationship, he had dealt with reporters and gossip magazines, run Balin ragged as their publicist, growled about their privacy even when they apparently had no concern for it. It was why he worried about them, even when interest died down as other, more active celebrities stepped into the spotlight. 

But he also knew them, that they didn’t care about the rest of the world, that they weren’t realistic, that they didn’t consider how their actions affected those around them. 

“You believe this sound will work,” he said.

Fíli lifted his chin. “I know it will,” he said.

Thorin nodded. He could put an end to this, easily enough. “Prove it.”

\----

Thorin remembered hearing his nephews’ band for the first time.

It wasn’t perfect. They didn’t have all the instruments they needed. But the _idea_ was there, the smooth, elvish sound of violin and keyboard, the hard rhythm of the drums, the growl of electric guitar.

The result was . . . interesting. Not jarring as he’d supposed, just different, in an intriguing way. It fit, even if it wasn’t complete, even if it needed depth. _A cello,_ he thought, _a harp. Clarinet and flute. Perhaps a voice._

But it wasn’t the sound that truly drew Thorin in. 

It was his nephews.

It was Fíli, who texted ahead so the others were there when he arrived. Fíli, confident and calm, as focused as Thorin had never seen him. All he said was, “Number Three,” and there were nods from the others – from Kíli, behind his small but excellently crafted drum set, from Gimli, still wearing the uniform shirt from the grocers where he worked, and from Ori, the prodigy Fíli had brought back with him from Gondor, frowning seriously at his full keyboard. 

It was Kíli, something defensive in his stance as Thorin walked in on Fíli’s heels. There was a challenge in his gaze, dark and watchful as his eyes flickered from Thorin’s impassive face to Fíli’s clever fingers. Kíli, setting the beat and playing with all his wild energy contained and unleashed at once.

It was Kíli, watching Fíli, and the look on his face was from their mother, fierce pride, fierce devotion. 

This wasn’t his childish nephew, a bit too loud, a bit too scattered, a bit too enthusiastic. This was a young male dedicated not only to his lover, but also to an idea.

And Fíli looked back at his brother with a softness in his eyes that Thorin never saw in the mirror, before lifting the violin to his throat.

Fíli played like a virtuoso, leaning into the music, and the sound soared, trembled, sang, and yes, Thorin hadn’t been working with him since that night so long ago, but the lad had grown as an artist. He played with his whole body, little twists and turns of sound, of his wrist, of his head. The others followed him, joined him, until all four instruments were one song, just as they ought to be. Fíli’s quiet nod signaled the start, and Kíli set the beat, but the band worked as a single being, and when the song was over, they exchanged grins filled with excitement and bright accomplishment.

Thorin remembered.

He remembered celebrations on radios, and plane crashes on flickering black televisions, and two boys so deeply in love they didn’t care how many tabloids plastered their faces across the covers. 

But the memories faded for a moment, and became something new:

An audience; not the calm, considering audience of the orchestra, but the screaming, kinetic fans of a rock band.

Fíli, leading by guiding, slow confident smiles and clever fingers, and Kíli always, always by his side.

Elves-elves in Erebor, as they had been hundreds of years ago, before they turned their backs on the changing world and hid away in their forests.

“Yes,” he murmured, too softly for his nephews to hear, though Kíli’s dark eyes turned toward him, questioning.

_For the first time in more years than he cared to count, Thorin stopped remembering the past, and started to imagine the future._


	4. Setting Sun Upon Your Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Time alone_

Tucked in a small valley hidden on Erebor’s southern slope was a lake. The lake was large enough for paddling about in and well-stocked with fish, but not big enough for a proper motorboat, and only one large cabin perched beside it. The house and lake were on the largest piece of land still owned by the once-royal family, currently in Thorin and Dis’s names, with Fíli and Kíli set to inherit one day. Thorin’s father had fought for it, the small mountain lake, the thick forest, tying it up in contracts and laws that would protect it from loggers or developers for generations. Even if the descendants of Durin sold every other piece of land they owned, the lake would be untouchable as a unique form of privately-owned nature reserve.

Fíli and Kíli loved it, and had as long as they could remember. It was the one place where their entire family could gather and be themselves, apart from lost crowns and business concerns, music or philanthropy. Their grandmother had laid firm rules about behavior at what was lovingly referred to only as the House – no business, no phone calls, no radio. Upon her death, Dis took the mantle, adjusting the guidelines as needed – no television, no internet, no smart phones. 

The House was their greatest sanctuary.

Three days after the conversation with their parents – a conversation Kíli insisted on only hours after they had come together so suddenly, so viscerally, swearing oaths with panting breaths and shaking fingertips – the brothers arrived at the House in the family SUV. They were laden with a set of hastily packed luggage and the memory of their parents’ faces – Dis smiling tightly, standing unnaturally straight and with dark circles under her eyes; Vali quiet and solemn, cupping their hands in his and bowing his head over them a moment before he handed them the keys. 

The ride up had been near-silent, strained. The awkwardness of it chipped away at the sudden and intense sense of perfect belonging that had settled over them in the wake of that awkward rut against the door (laughter on their tongues, vibrating between their lips, “That was unexpected” and “We’ll do better next time,” and shivers to seal the promise). Fíli drove with single-minded concentration, as he always drove, like the road would rise up and kill them both if he didn’t keep an eye on it. Kíli usually found it hilarious. Kíli was silent now, however, and fiddled with the radio, with his phone, with a book, with the laces of his comfortable old sneakers, as the lack of noise and chatter sat heavy between them. 

Once or twice, Fíli said, “Kíli,” or Kíli muttered, “Fíli,” but it never went beyond that.

Until they reached the lake, and climbed quietly out of the car.

It spread before them, sparkling in the sun, the air rich with the scent of pine and a snap of electricity that hinted at a coming storm. The wind whipped around the little valley, slapping water against the shore and swirling noisily around the dock that came straight from the cabin’s front door. They both stopped, taking twin slow breaths that ended in soft laughter as they realized they were moving in synch. 

Kíli smiled, and twitched a hand out, which Fíli immediately accepted. 

“Just you and me,” Fíli said, and lifted the hand to his lips, pressing a delicate kiss to the wrist that startled a rare, shy sort of smile out of Kíli that he’d never seen before. 

They grabbed the bags and walked inside without ever letting go. It took some finagling, a bit of odd twisting, and a lot of juggling to make sure they closed the hatchback, but they managed it in the end. 

Kíli immediately turned toward the back bedroom, the one they’d shared all their lives on family trips. It was small and cozy, facing into the forest rather than the lake, and crowded with two small beds and matching wardrobes due to the lack of a proper closet. Fíli stopped him though, a little tug on his hand. “Not this time.”

Kíli frowned, “Then where-”

Fíli’s eyes flickered toward the stairs, and there was a definite hint of pink across his nose even as his lips curved into a mischievous smirk that made Kíli’s heart take an extra thump that felt strangely familiar. 

_Oh,_ he thought, as he remembered feeling that thump before, when Fíli would shoot him a sly look, all confidence and trouble. _It’s been longer than I thought,_ and he laughed a bit at himself, weeks younger and infinitely more foolish. 

Fíli’s smile faltered as Kíli considered this new piece of evidence. It wasn’t acceptable, not at all, that Fíli should be frowning as warmth spread through Kíli’s chest. He grinned to set it right, giving the hand in his a squeeze before he glanced up the stairs and realized what Fíli meant. His mouth fell open a bit. 

“That’s our _parents_ ’ room!” he protested, horrified. 

“It’s the best room and we’re the only ones here,” Fíli pointed out. “Best view, best bathroom, and,” his voice caught, a tiny thing no one else would hear, “best bed.”

Well. This thump was something entirely new, a rhythm of fondness and lust and _this is mine forever_ that made Kíli laugh out loud with the music of it. “Best bed is the most important part!” he agreed, and started jogging up the stairs (perhaps a bit too fast, given the grunt when he pulled Fíli’s arm rather harder than intended) with Fíli on his heels.

The upstairs bedroom was beautiful, sprawling furniture and picture windows, with a glass door leading out to a balcony that thrust out over the lake. They’d sneaked in here as children, crawling into their parents’ bed and begging for stories or hot chocolate or sweets, sharing confusion when the door was locked and they couldn’t get in, playing on the balcony under their father’s watchful eye. It was homey and beautiful and full of good memories. 

But at the moment, most important of all, it had a huge bed, freshly made up by the cleaning service the family sent in before their arrival.

Kíli’s hand in his, warm and a bit chapped, released something in Fíli – some tension that had settled into his spine and slid up his neck, made his mind twist and question where for so long it had been a question of _when_ and not of _should_. Kíli smiled at him, nervous but excited, and Fíli tugged, a sharp twist of one strong wrist to bump them together in a light collision of hips. 

“Come to bed with me,” he said, just to see his brother’s eyes widen, and to hear the soft, delighted laugh that was Kíli at his happiest.

It had been wonderful, that moment when he walked in the door. Kíli’s eyes had been almost feral, desperate and shining, and finally touching, finally allowed to touch, teeth and tongues, had been more than Fíli imagined (and he had imagined so much, curled up in his bed at the university, piles of covers to muffle the noises spilling from his lips). Everything happened in moments, instinctively, completely right and completely wonderful, firing along every nerve at once.

But this was different. This was-

Fíli led Kíli to the bed, standing beside it, side-by-side for a moment. He felt Kíli breathing, felt Kíli’s fingers tighten around his. Fíli turned and, with a smile, reached out for the dark hoodie Kíli had pulled on in proper dwarven fashion. 

This wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t a lightning flash of lust and blinding need. It was Kíli lifting his arms, his breath a bit shaky, Kíli bending as Fíli removed the shirt beneath as well, Kili’s skin as Fíli splayed his hands across his chest. Fíli was darker than he’d once been, closer to Kíli’s warmer coloring after his years in the sun of Gondor, but they were still so different. Kíli was long lines and sleek muscle, slight for a dwarf where Fíli was square, his chest more narrow behind thick brown curls. 

Kíli’s heart flickered madly under the stroke of Fíli’s thumb, and his breath caught in countermeasure when Fíli’s palm slid over one hardening nipple. “Mine too,” Fíli murmured, a melody, and his brother laid a hand over his heart. At the pounding against his fingertips, Kíli moaned and leaned in to kiss him.

They took their time.

Slow kisses, light brushes of lips that melded into tangling tongues and back again. Clothes carefully removed – “You have nerve dressing like this,” against Fíli’s mouth as Kíli’s slowly slid off the sleeveless shirt, fingers tracing over his skin – and Fíli laughed, pushed him expertly on the stomach, just so, to knock him onto the bed.

Kíli, half-glaring at the old trick, half laughing at this new use for it, wriggled happily up to splay across the sheets in a long-limbed sprawl. 

It was everything Fíli had imagined, but more breathtaking than he’d anticipated.

“Kíli,” he said, and he knew it was in his voice – love, lust, adoration, amusement, surprise, acceptance – a million emotions all curled together into one note that shivered in the form of his brother’s name.

Kíli reached for him, and his whisper of, “Come here now,” was all the harmony Fíli could ever want.

Sun streamed through the windows and birds sang joyful melodies as the sons of Dis discovered each other. The last of their clothes came off bit by bit, interrupted by slow kisses and awed fingertips tracing newly exposed skin. Kíli gasped when Fíli traced a nipple, squirmed when his brother – greatly daring, heart pounding – pressed his mouth there and sucked lightly. Fíli moaned as Kíli buried his hands in the thick mane of hair, as fingertips brushed the ever-hidden back of his neck and sparked unexpected shivers across his shoulders. 

Time sprawled, the light shifting and deepening as late afternoon gave way to sunset, as Fíli sat astride his brother, tracing fingers over hips burnished gold; as they lay side by side, Kíli’s hand a shy inch away from Fíli’s erection, pink and red over their tangled legs. 

Kili was surprised that Fíli didn’t react when Kíli stroked his hips – Fíli laughed when he tried the move on Kíli, and Kíli nearly squirmed on top of him in search of more. Fíli never knew that the dart of Kíli’s tongue over the tip of his ear (meant as a punishment for a poorly placed elbow), would make him yelp and grab for Kíli’s waist. 

They hadn’t known laughter could belong here, with bare skin and exploring fingers, with the steady grind of hips and the soft, wet sound of kisses. They didn’t know they could feel as if they were about to burst, only to cool down and rise again because of giggles brought on by a flailing arm or a suddenly bothersome knee.

They didn’t know it could end so suddenly, almost a surprise, Kíli’s little shout as he ground against the heat of Fíli’s groin, spilling and shivering as Fíli kissed him, murmured against his mouth (“Kíli, Kíli, yes, come for me, please, baby, yes”), and he didn’t know if he came from the friction or from that voice on ragged breaths. Didn’t know Fíli would finally come from just a touch of Kíli’s hand around his cock, fingers a little shaky as he watched because he could, could watch and touch as Fíli’s hips lost any sense of rhythm, any sense of grace (didn’t know he could do that, wipe out Fíli’s music and replace it with this discordant groaning, little grunts and pants) and he climaxed slick and hot over Kíli’s fingers.

The room darkened to purples and blues as Fíli wrapped his arms around Kíli and pulled him close (momentarily stymied because all those daydreams somehow shaved at least three inches off his brother’s frame, and Kíli snickered a bit before wiggling down so he could nuzzle into Fíli’s shoulder, Fíli’s toes brushing his shins). Crickets began to chirp as the songbirds settled in to sleep and the owls took their place with haunting calls through the treetops. 

Kíli whispered it first, delicate and a bit shy, though they’d said it before, all their lives, but not like this:

“I love you.”

A low sigh, a soft musical hum of contentment, Fíli’s hands stroking the curve of his spine and making him shiver, little sparks of pleasure in his groin. “I’m _in_ love with you,” he answered, and that made Kíli buck against him (hardening too, slide of slick skin) and Fíli’s sly little chuckle overlaid Kíli’s hands sliding lower and Kíli’s delighted, “Let’s go again,” as he nipped at Fíli’s shoulder.


	5. Symphony of Thunder and Violin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Because he could_

Kíli didn't know later if it was the delicious ache in his hips or the crash of thunder or the empty bed (how had he grown used to the warmth of Fíli's body in less than a week?) which woke him in the middle of the night. It could have been any one of them, or all together, or something else entirely. He knew only that he woke to mussed sheets and the sound of rain, but no Fíli.

He murmured his brother’s name, too softly to be heard, and curved for a moment around the pillow his brother had been using. _Fíli_ , he thought, still half asleep and, strange and new, sore in his shoulders and along his thighs. 

Fíli didn't answer.

But his violin did.

The glass in the windows shuddered through a crash of thunder, the rain slashed down on the skylight, and then the sweet song of a violin - Fíli's violin, warm and familiar - rose above it all. 

Kíli pushed to sit, his eyes following the sound, seeking out his brother (all his life, all his life, but not like this) by tracing the song - already changing, shifting as the thunder rolled away. 

He found him, finally, where he certainly shouldn't be – Kíli could just make out his brother's form, framed by the balcony doors, which were thrown open to the storm. He almost spoke, almost called out - _come in out of there!_ with a warm laugh because it had been a long time since he’d seen Fíli so audacious -but then lightning flashed and-

Oh.

Fíli's skin, bare everywhere and bleached white in the staccato flash of electricity, the fall of golden hair, the sensual curve of the violin, the shift in his stance as he changed the tempo and lightning crackled through rich blue clouds.

Kíli watched, awestruck, as the storm played percussion for Fíli's violin.

Kíli slid to the edge of the bed (a shift and slide, smooth notes vibrating, shifting into the rhythm unconsciously), and pushed carefully to his feet. He took a few short steps, feet sliding a bit on the floor, slick with the thin spray of rain whipping between the open curtains. One hand rose, reaching for the bare line of Fíli's back, the firm swell below, the strong shoulders above - he wanted to touch everything and nothing, slide his hands where he'd wanted for so long. 

Fíli shifted, right arm flexing as he moved his chin, left arm firming. 

The music slowed, deepened, flowed.

Kíli stopped, and his hand slowly fell to his side.

Fíli.

This was Fíli.

 _His_ Fíli, the brother he'd always been proud of (a little jealous), the fall of his hair and the tilt of his head as he played as familiar as their mother’s face. His brother, who played when he was sad or angry, tense or irritated, overwhelmed or yes, happy, grabbing the emotions and twisting them, forming them, making them into music.  
But there was more to his Fíli now: new and exciting, bare and strong in the pale, rain-streaked light of the moon, in the flashes of lightning.  
High notes, trembling, Fíli's fingers vibrating along the fret until the violin pattered like rain.

Kíli felt his heart in his throat, in his wrists (a flutter of lust, a tremble of thunder), felt his mouth curve. He lifted a hand, touched the shape of his lips (sensitive still, a bit swollen under his fingertips). 

He smiled.

It was a new smile, soft and unfamiliar. He wondered what it looked like.

He would ask Fíli someday (he had thousands of thousands of days to get around to it, stretching out before him), but not tonight. If he spoke now, Fíli would stop playing, and this moment (new and delicate) would be broken. 

He wanted to hold on to it as long as he could.

Kíli grabbed Fíli's pillow and a soft blanket kicked from the bed hours before (rolling bodies and laughter, playfully wrestling for position before everything gave way to kisses and heat, thrusts and fingertips), then padded silently across the room to the open windows. Water sprayed over him (no good for the violin, he thought, and he hadn't even known Fíli'd brought one until now but of course he did, always), bracing and cold against the warmth of the night. 

He could reach out if he wanted, wrap his arms around Fíli’s waist, press snug against his back, tuck his nose in the damp hair (tightening into curls in the spray). He could kiss that neck, and slide his hands down, wrap his fingers around Fíli’s cock, warm strokes until it firmed in his hand. He could spend some time nibbling at the back of Fíli’s neck (he’d not considered that yet), or tug him back to bed, or push him out properly in the rain and kiss his brother’s half-hearted admonishments away. 

He could do any of those things now, the evidence of his freedom in the sensitive skin of his thighs, the tenderness of his hips, and the stretch of his shoulders. 

Or he could leave Fíli be, and find a place to listen, the sum total of the audience for a symphony of lightning, thunder, rain, and violin.

He curled up in the upholstered chair tucked near the windows, wrapping up comfortably and settling in. He let his eyes fall shut, tilted his face into the wind, and lost himself in the storm of nature and music.

"Kíli?"

Kíli shook himself some time later - how long? he'd ridden on music and tapped along beats for minutes or hours - and opened his eyes to find Fíli, bare skin slick with rain water, hair flicking around his face, looking down at him with the singular mixture of amusement and affection Kíli knew so well.

(And something new, something darker, a vein of lust in his hands and his eyes, in the curve of his fingers around the bow.)

"Fíli," he said, loud enough this time, and smiling.

“What’re you doing?” Fíli’s voice was caught between amusement and admonishment, you’ll catch cold and you’ve rocks for brains all mixed in.

“Listening to you,” Kíli said, and he felt his smile spread, let his eyes flicker down along his brother’s body and up again, “and watching.”

“You should have told me you were up.”

Kíli smiled and reached out, wrapping his fingers around Fíli’s left wrist, because he could (could have all along). “Maybe,” he agreed, with a warmth and depth in his voice that sounded unfamiliar to his own ears, “but I like to listen,” a tug, and Fíli came closer. Another, and Kíli could lean over and press a kiss to the hard plane of his Fíli’s stomach, “and to watch.”

Fíli cupped his face, slid into his lap (heavy, hot weight, unfamiliar but welcome, a little roll of the hips), and Kíli tilted his head back (strange, and was this how Fíli felt every time?), and kissed him.

Kíli moaned into the kiss, wrapped his arms around Fíli’s hips, and held on.

Because he could, always.


	6. In These Quiet Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They're our sons_

Vali, son of Kholi, never imagined he would be paying matchmaker for his own rock-headed sons.

Well, if not matchmaker, seeing as how the match was made already, then perhaps marriage counselor. Someone had to; if they didn’t, Vali’s youngest was going to hobby himself to death.

Only two weeks after Fíli had marched back into their lives and the boys had decided they were in love, Vali’s eldest returned to school in Gondor to complete his coursework. His sons talked daily at first, Kíli’s chattering into the portable phone as he moved around the house, their conversations a strange mix of _shut up, jackass_ and _I love you_ that should have felt more uncomfortable than it did (more strange that somehow he’d accepted it, this romance between his sons, seen that it was real). 

But then –

A vacation came.

And went.

Without Fíli.

“Kíli and I talked about it,” Fíli assured his father over the phone. “The sooner I finish, the sooner I can be home for good.”

“Are you sure your brother-”

“He agreed!”

Vali was suspicious, but he let it go. For over a _year_ he let it go, even though the phone calls went down by half, and Kíli started taking every class he could think of to stay busy (something Vali could understand, having double majored in music and liberal arts himself), and Fíli only came home once, for the week vacation around Durin’s Day (a week in which they disappeared, which was probably just as well for Vali’s brain), and after Fíli left Kíli suddenly shifted gears to a whole _new_ set of random classes—

Which all led to this moment: 3 a.m. and wandering, half asleep, into the kitchen in search of water, to find Kíli wildly chopping a red pepper into submission.

Vali stopped. And blinked. And glanced around. Then he said:

“Good morning,” for lack of anything better to say when every surface in his carefully maintained kitchen was covered in some sort of food.

“Morning,” Vali’s usually-cheerful son answered through clenched teeth as he shoved the pepper bits away and grabbed a hunk of what appeared to be pork. When he started chopping, it was with a disturbing sort of thunking noise as the knife (Vali’s _good_ knife) slammed over and over into the cutting board.

Vali winced. It was a nice cutting board, too.

“So,” he ventured, “did that loin insult your mother, somehow? Or are you pretending it’s your brother’s face?”

The knife suddenly stopped, but Kíli didn’t look up from his hunched position over the counter. “What do you mean?”

Vali perched on one of the breakfast stools, watching his son with interest. Kíli was always a fascinating specimen: all cheerfulness and open love wrapped up in temper and fierce eyebrows. He was a perfect combination of Vali and Dis, and Vali loved him for it, even when he was being exasperating. “I meant exactly what it sounds like I meant. You are assaulting food products at 3 a.m. with intent to wound. A dwarf in love only does that for one reason.”

Kíli’s shoulders rose as his head lowered and he let messy hair fall into his face. “Oh,” he whispered.

“You,” Vali informed him as Kíli’s hand slowed and he started to slice the pork like a sane person, “have been turning the Durin Sulk on everyone lately.” The tabloids and fan magazines referred to this expression, a specialty of Thorin and Dis’s which Kíli had inherited, as the “Durin Glare.” Vali, an expert in Durin Moods, referred to it more correctly as a Sulk. “And I assume it’s about Fíli.”

The shoulders slowly and deliberately lowered. When Kíli spoke, his voice was so carefully calm that it could only be faked. “I’m not sulking. I’m cooking. It has nothing to do with Fíli. Who _cares_ about Fíli?” His right elbow started moving a bit faster again. “Stupid Fíli, with his stupid _face_ and his stupid _violin_ and his stupid _college_? I don’t!”

“Hmm,” Vali said, reaching out to sample what appeared to be steak on a stick. He nibbled at it. “You agreed that he should stay at school over the holidays and finish earlier, and Fíli is too young and new at this being in love thing to realize you were lying to his face. ”

“I didn’t lie! It _is_ fine-!”

Flames burst up from the frying pan Kíli was using, and Vali’s son swore and started beating it into submission.

“Please don’t burn your eyebrows off,” Vali said mildly as the flames were smothered, “your sulk would be much less epic.”

Kíli glared at him, complete with eyebrows. “Don’t you need your beauty rest?” he muttered.

“I’m naturally beautiful, like Fíli. Or rather, Fíli is like me. Remember Fíli? Your,” _brother? Boyfriend? …Both?_ , “brother, the one you need to call and tell to come home, because despite his apparent musical genius, he appears to have inherited less of my common sense than I’d like.”

It was a given in the family that 93% of their accumulated common sense lay with Vali, even if his brother-in-law wouldn’t admit it.

Kíli sighed. It was a pitiful sound that broke Vali’s heart more than a little. Kíli had always been the more delicate of his children, warm and loving and given to taking things hard where Fíli would narrow his eyes and hide his feelings behind a sly smile and his own brand of heavy, loose-hipped grace. “He doesn’t need to come home, Adad,” Kíli said quietly as he fussed with the contents of the pan. “It’s fine.” He stabbed a few pieces on a fork and held it out. “I just don’t get why he had to go _back_.”

Vali tasted the concoction. It was cooked well, with spice and a taste of white wine. Several of Kíli’s many classes over the last three years had been cooking; it was hard to think back to teaching his son the basics of boiling water (signed up for the advanced class first and nearly killed them all) now that he could cook like this. “It’s good,” he said honestly, to see the small smile he’d earn, but he had to add, “he went back to get his degree. That was the plan.”

Another sigh, and Kíli drooped; and when Vali’s youngest drooped, he did so with his whole body and soul. “I know,” he whispered. “But he left, Adad. He left _me._ He said he loved me,” Kíli hid behind his hair, messy and tangled from what must have been some attempt at sleep, “and then he left.”

“Oh, Kíli.” Vali moved, because he couldn’t _not_ move, and gathered his too-tall son in his arms. Kíli curled down to fit better, tucking into Vali’s hold. His long, clever fingers tangled in the soft material of Vali’s robe. “Your brother thinks he’s showing he loves you by working himself to exhaustion. And you think you’re showing you love him by suffering in silence.” He rubbed Kíli’s back as he did when Kíli was small and cuddling up between his parents in the middle of the night, solemnly delivered by a worried (or irritated) Fíli after Kíli’d had nightmares. “You have to call and tell him it’s not working for you.”

Kíli shook his head and started to protest, but Vali cut him off.

“No, you don’t get to argue. It has to be done. Because if you don’t, I will call Fíli and tell him that you sneaked into his room and stole his childhood blanket and are using it as a pillow case.”

Kíli froze. “You _wouldn’t_.” 

“Oh, I most certainly would.” Vali gave him a squeeze and stepped back. He had all the timing of dealing with Kíli to a science and had done since the lad was barely forty and convinced his beard would never grow in. “You go get on that phone, call your brother, and say, ‘Fíli, my love!’” Vali pressed a hand to his forehead dramatically, “’Come home to me! My heart grows as cold as my toes!’”

Kíli looked positively _pained_ , which was exactly what Vali wanted (he deserved a bit of pain, making his father stand here and tell him how to hit on his brother). “Adad, I _can’t_ -“

“I have one more threat to use against you.”

“Adad-”

“A really good one.”

“I _can’t_ , you’re not _listening_ , he’ll be mad at me-”

“I’ll regale you with tales from when I was courting your mother,” Vali spoke over his son’s weak warblings effortlessly. “For example: Then I was your age, and we were dating, your mother had about as much beard as you do. And she would blush because there was so little of it – it was absolutely adorable – so I would rub my cheek against hers and make her giggle.”

Kíli blanched. “ _Ew._ Adad!”

Vali stepped away and started crossing in the direction of the phone. “Being grossed out that your mother and I dated once is pretty hilarious from someone mooning over his brother.”

“I am not _mooning,_ and don’t hate on my _beard_ , Fili says it’s growing in fine and Amad says it’s like Thorin and Frerin’s and what are you doing?!” Panic rose in Kíli’s face as Vali picked up the phone and hit a single, preset button.

\---

Fíli was fast asleep when the phone rang.

And rang.

And rang.

Groaning, he rolled over and pulled the pillow over his head.

And the phone rang for what he estimated had to be the eight hundredth time.

He admitted defeat.

He sent forth a hand from the tangle of sheets and snatched it up.

“Nnnngg?” 

“Ah, Fíli!” came his father’s voice, practically shining through the phone. “So glad you’re awake! I was worried you might be asleep!”

Fíli groaned and glared blearily in the direction of his bedside clock as some sort of scuffle ensued on the other end of the line. He heard the words _Adad_ and _gimme_ and _don’t you dare_ in a voice he usually loved but could really do without at . . . 1:24 a.m.

“Your brother is here, cooking and making a mess,” his father said just as Fíli was nodding off again, the phone tucked against his shoulder. “The food’s good, which you should appreciate.”

“Mmm,” Fíli said, which was an excellent response for him. He determined that he would do best at maintaining consciousness if he sat up. He planted his elbows with this goal in mind. 

“Now he’s yelling at me to give him the phone, some people, can’t talk to my own son.”

“Nnnnf.” Fíli was up, his back against the pillows. He rested his head against the wall, briefly glad that he had his own bedroom so at least he didn’t have Ori throwing things at him. His roommate had surprisingly excellent aim when roused. 

“I’m handing the phone to Kíli now,” Vali said, and then suddenly bellowed, “WAKE UP PROPERLY!”

Fíli jerked up, eyes flying wide. “WHAT THE HELL, DAD?!”

“ _What?! No I don’t want_ – hi Fíli.”

Fíli slumped forward, rubbing at his temples tiredly. “Kíli,” he said, and because he liked saying it, again, “Kíli. Did you let Adad off his leash? It’s…it’s time for _sleeping_.”

He started to snuggle back into his covers. His father was drunk or something, clearly, but Kíli loved him. Kíli would let him sleep.

“He didn’t ask me,” came the rather sulky response, “he just came in here and started ranting and making phone calls.”

“Mmm.”

A pause.

“So. How are you?”

Fíli punched his pillow just so and resettled. “Fine. Or I was when I was sleeping. What’s going on? Why’d Dad decided we don’t get to sleep anymore?” 

“I was cooking. I’m making a casserole and a stirfry, and some kebabs.”

“…At three AM?” Now Fíli was truly awake, because there was something in that voice, something that pulled at Fíli’s chest and ached in his throat. Fíli was the one who stayed up all night; Kíli was early-ish to bed, early to rise. 

“It seemed like a good time. To. Ah. To cook.”

Vali’s voice came through again, muffled but clear: “I’m about to take that phone, Kíli. And when I do. I will tell him about the blanky.”

It was much, much too early to make sense of that statement, but clearly something was going on that Fíli wasn’t privy to.

There was a longish silence, in which Fíli’s sleepiness evaporated to be replaced with rising worry. “Kí-“

“Imissyouyoushouldcomehomeandseemeinsteadofplayingwiththatstupidpianistofyours.”

It took a moment to untangle the words, to take them apart and pick the emotion from them, and then Fíli’s hand clenched white around the phone because: _oh._

“Oh baby,” he whispered, his voice rough and a little broken with this sudden influx of guilt. “You want me to come home?”

Quiet for a beat, and then:

“Yes. Yes. You. You _left_ , Fíli.” Kíli’s voice was deep, deeper than Fíli’s, and now it rumbled through the line along a tremor of accusation and pain. “You left me.”

“What? No!” No, no, they’d talked about it, they’d _agreed_ , sitting there holding hands beside the sparkle of the lake, aches in their muscles and the moon on the water. “I didn’t leave _you_! I told you, I want to get finished so I can come home and stay!”

Stay and never leave. 

….If he went home, he’d never be able to-

“Six months, Fíli. You didn’t even come for my birthday. You could . . . you could take online classes! Or just – just _skip_ a week. But you didn’t! You won’t! You left!”

“You said you understood, you said-”

“You weren’t supposed to say yes!” Kíli’s voice burst over the line, crackled and broke, and Fíli couldn’t answer, couldn’t find words. “You were supposed to say no.” A whisper now. “You were supposed to miss me, and want to see me.” Ratcheting up now, higher and louder: “I thought it would be fine but it’s not, not for me, not like it is for you, and you know what I don’t _care_ if it’s clingy or childish or-or anything! I’m sick of waiting for you to decide to come home!” 

Oh, _Kíli_. 

“I miss you,” Fíli said, because he did, every day, a space between heartbeats where his brother should be.

“You suck,” but there was more frustration and pain there than anger.

“You brat,” Fíli said, feeling a tug of a smile at his mouth, “I love you and I want to see you all the time.”

“I’m not stopping you!” Snapped out, crackling along the line.

“And I’m sorry I hurt you.”

A huff, a pause, a murmur and then the sound of a door closing as, Fíli assumed, their father left the room.

“If you’re sorry,” Kíli finally said, “then come home. Just. Just for a visit. Then you can go back.”

The smile spread, and Fíli felt his heart speed up with anticipation, with love, with frustration at Kíli for being Kíli, and absolute besotted affection for exactly the same reason. “Okay.”

Fíli could imagine it in his mind’s eye: Kíli’s body slumping, the shoulders that had been rising around his ears falling, his lips parting a bit, his hands twitching with restless surprise. “What?”

“Okay.”

“Oh.”

Fíli reached out and grabbed his laptop, opening the top and tapping in his password. “I’m on the computer now. I’m looking for flights.” He didn’t tell Kíli that a flight search service was on his favorites bar, or how many times he’d looked up flights and not-quite-checked-out because they’d _agreed_ coming home to stay was more important than coming home to visit.

“But – but you have class! You-you can’t just-”

“I’ve never missed a class,” which was true, “so I’m due,” and that was probably true as well.

If it wasn’t, he didn’t care.

Fíli listened to Kíli’s breathing and imagined feeling it on his cheek. He willed the search engine to work faster. 

“I signed up for a weight class,” Kíli said, and Fíli knew it would be okay. He would take the first flight he could find, cost be damned (why be wealthy if all he ever spent his money on was violins?), and Kíli would be there at the airport, waiting for him. “I hate it.”

Fíli grinned and pressed his lips to the phone. There was a flight that would arrive at 4:18 that afternoon. He intended to be on it. “Of course you do. You hate exercise. That’s my thing. You only do it to keep up your elf-ish figure.”

“Oh! _Hey now_! I should fight you for that! I do _not_ look like an elf!”

“You can try and fight me,” Fíli said, wide awake and in love and stupid with it.

“Yeah I can,” a beat, anticipatory and filled with forgiveness Fíli didn’t really deserve, “when you get here.”

“Today.”

A beat, hopeful and surprised. “Today?”

“4:18. I’ll need a ride.”

“. . . I’ll see if I can get you one,” Kíli said, and he meant _I’ll be there, no matter what._ “Maybe I’ll come myself, so I can pound you right there on the tarmac.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Fíli said, and he knew, he knew, that Kíli’s smile was sweet, and surprised, and wonderfully warm. “I love you.”

\----

There had been a time when Dis, daughter of Frey, had believed she would never marry or have children. Even before her coming of age, she had accepted that no one would want a dwarf too wealthy, too famous, and with too many responsibilities as their spouse.

Vali, then, had come as something of a shock.

Her Vali, the son of schoolteachers, who gave her love and hope and two beautiful boys, asking for nothing but affection in return. Vali, whose quiet good sense had made her see the warm reality of her sons’ love for each other, who had held her shaking hands and kissed her forehead and said, “We love them or we lose them.”

Dis loved them. She loved her sons and her husband and her brother with a fierce protectiveness that sometimes stole her breath away.

Dis knew Fíli would be there that afternoon when she got home from work. Her husband had sent her off that morning with a smug kiss, saying he’d gotten the boys in line sometime in the wee hours (pointing out how kind he was to let her sleep and not wake her up and complain about how hopeless and adorable they both were), and Fíli would be arriving that afternoon by plane. She’d expected to find they’d sneaked off together, Vali sitting at home strumming on his guitar and looking pleased with himself. Instead, she walked into her house to this:

A refrigerator filled to the brim with enough prepared meals to feed the orchestra for a week, poorly packaged  
Her husband asleep in his favorite easy chair, having apparently turned his newspaper into an impromptu blanket  
Her sons on the sofa, fast asleep, Fíli’s head tilted back and his mouth open, Kíli’s cheek against his knee, her silk and linen pillows shoved unceremoniously on the floor or under Kíli’s ankles.

Dis _tsk_ ed softly and, ever practical, got to work setting things to rights.

The fridge took several minutes, as she had to remove most of the food and wrap it up properly so it wouldn’t all go bad before they could enjoy it. Her husband and son were of the opinion that tossing delicious meals in baggies would save them forever, and this had clearly been made even worse by doing the cleaning up half-asleep. Of all Kíli’s scattered hobbies and classes, his forays into cooking were by far her favorite. She was an indifferent cook at best, and Vali, while skillful, had a far too adventurous spirit for her refined palette. Kíli cooked delicious, traditional meals that stuck to the ribs. These were meals deserving of proper containers and a vacubag sealing system. She didn’t want any going to waste.

For Vali, she removed the newspaper, chuckling to herself at the soft rustles and Vali’s light snort, and tossed her soft winter shawl over him instead. He looked sweet and young in that moment, like the cheeky sixty-eight year old who had spoken to her like a person and not a Durin, all those years ago (eight years her junior and not even in his official majority; holding out a hand in friendship and waiting patiently until Dis, wary and suspicious after Frerin’s death, cautiously accepted it).

Then there were the boys.

Dis studied them for a moment. Fíli was a little thinner, which she didn’t approve of, while Kíli looked . . . 

Relaxed. For the first time in too long. 

She hadn’t realized how tense he’d become until now, when she saw him curled up and asleep, nuzzling his nose into Fíli’s thigh. Fíli’s hand was in his hair, tangled with the strands in a way that told a story of steady strokes just this side of petting. 

It wasn’t so different from when they were children, she thought, piling together on cold nights like hyperactive puppies, whispering and giggling so loudly that she eventually reassigned the guest room as Kíli’s room, just so she and Vali could get some proper sleep. The boys had adjusted well to each having their own space, growing into separate people who came together on the sofa or at dinner to wrestle and tease, poke and prod, to fall asleep leaning on each other and wake up complaining about drool marks on shoulders.

Not so different, except for everything about it, every emotion behind it, the peace on Kíli’s face and the protectiveness in Fíli’s hands. 

“Ah, me,” she murmured, because what else was there to say? These were her boys, as stubborn as she and as warm as their father and so well-suited to each other that her shock (Kíli’s lifted chin, Fíli’s firm grip on his hand, Fíli’s calm voice speaking of _love_ and _forever_ , Kíli’s eyes rapt on his face in a reflection of adoration) had melted into a sort of bewildered happiness much sooner than was proper. 

Gently, she readjusted them, nudging Fíli here and there until he looked less like he would wake up with a terrible crick in his neck, then flicking a blanket over her youngest. Kíli was always cold-natured. Her hands, trained from the day of Fíli’s birth, moved so gently and quietly that even though they were young men now, and not babes, they didn’t wake. 

They knew her touch. They knew her love.

Dis smiled. 

She would call Thorin and order him to join them for dinner before Fili flew back to Gondor. If he declined, she would go to his apartments and pick him up personally. Even her stubborn ass of a brother couldn’t resist when she told him to do something for his own good.

She would have her family properly together again. 

And she wouldn’t even have to cook.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tone of this chapter is quite different, I know, but well, they're not always sex and violins. Sometimes they're just young dorks in love.


	7. Fan of Fingertips Across His Hips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Bruises_
> 
> warning: completely consensual but somewhat rough sex

Fíli did research. Kíli watched porn. Somewhere in the middle, they figured things out.

They found a place to live together two days after Fíli was awarded his graduate degree at Gondor University. It was more accurate to say Kíli found the place ahead of time, overseen by Vali to make sure they didn’t end up in a leaking cave 14 feet square that Kíli, in his enthusiasm, thought sounded _interesting_ , but Fíli did approve the choice from afar. Their home wasn’t big or lavish, but it was well-appointed and cozy and perfect the moment they moved in, with nothing but a big bed, piles of pillows, and each other.

They didn’t leave for a week.

They did emerge, finally, pleased with themselves and perhaps too sore not to escape the house for a while. Soon they were out and about daily, Kíli at his classes, Fíli with the orchestra, but every evening they went home, home together, where Kíli cooked and Fíli composed and they came together in a clash of lust and love and laughter.

\---

Kíli was gentle when he was inside Fíli.

It wasn’t conscious, not since that first time, when they whispered of it in the dark and Fíli insisted on receiving first. That time Kíli had been all blushing ears and fluttering butterflies, and it hadn’t been perfect but it had felt good, hot and _close_ and just-just indescribable, even when Fíli asked (when Fíli felt the same on his end, couldn’t put it into words).

But even later, as the weeks became months, Kíli couldn’t help but be gentle. There was something _fragile_ about Fíli then, on his back amongst the soft flannel sheets, calves curved over Kíli’s thighs. 

Fíli wasn’t fragile, he wasn’t delicate; he was solid and strong, stronger than Kíli, really, and yet - in those moments, watching his brother arch as Fíli’s body took him in, Kíli was always suddenly reminded how _small_ Fíli was, how the flutter of pale lashes made him look delicate, how the heat of his body felt like something to cherish and care for. Fíli pulling him down, lips parted as he panted into kisses and murmured Kíli’s name-

Fíli was beautiful.

But Kíli didn’t want gentleness in return.

They discovered it by accident – a long day out, squabbling over furniture and trading heated teasing until they were both half-hard from it, pulling at each other’s clothes on the way in the door and leaving a trail through the empty living room. Kíli fell forward onto the bed, wiggling his bare ass with a teasing laugh, and Fíli grabbed his hips, tugged him off the end-

He prepared him (of course, always, this was _Fíli_ ), but less than before, maybe not-enough, but Kíli wanted it and he lied, said he was ready when he wasn’t, but then the push in and- _fuck_. A brief flash of pain – only a moment as the head thrust past the first ring of muscle, immediately soothed, but in that moment Kíli cried out and grabbed for the sheets, twisting them in his fists.

“Are you-”

“Yes! Mahal, yes, don’t stop, move, move-”

They’d not done it this way before, Kíli trapped against the bed and Fíli standing, and Kíli would realize later that Fíli didn’t realize how much strength he put into his thrusts like this (would feel guilty if he knew, would have stopped, but Kíli-)

Kíli rocked, scrambled, and Fíli leaned over him, lifted a knee to the bed and _thrust_ , a little too fast and a little too deep but yes, yes, Kíli growled and pulled, because it was _perfect_ , Fíli found the angle and just-just kept-

(and the sounds, slap of skin and wet slide of cock and Fíli’s breath as he leaned down and almost pinned Kíli’s body with his own - he’d never-never been so surrounded-by-trapped-under-Fíli before)

Fíli’s hands were on his hips, holding him still even as Kili shoved a hand down and stroked himself off as he moaned for more (demanded, didn’t beg, sharper on his tongue because he _needed_ to feel Fíli’s hands tighten, the faint bite of Fíli’s thumbs digging into the small of his back).

Kíli shuddered as he came, gasping for air and a little overwhelmed, growled when Fíli tried to pull away and pushed back, grinding, wanting to feel that rush of warmth that meant Fíli was as lost, just for a moment, as he was.

Afterwards, Fíli stroked his thighs and kissed his neck and murmured apologies Kíli didn’t need and didn’t want. Kíli rolled over and curled into him, let Fíli pet his hair because he was too embarrassed to put it into words.

\----

He found the bruises the next morning.

They weren’t dark, just tender, a splay of fingertips across his hip and, as he twisted, a hint of thumbs just above the swell of his ass. 

He touched one and hissed as pleasure jolted to his groin and sent a shiver down his spine.

“Fíli made these,” he whispered to his reflection, and the eyes that looked back at him were blown with the lust of being possessed. 

\----

Fíli was horrified at first, apologies tripping from his lips, but Kíli grabbed his hands and put them back, tried to line them up with the tender flesh. 

“I can’t-” Fíli started to say, but Kili jerked his hips a little to make Fíli grab reflexively.

“You put them there,” Kíli said, wrapping his arms around Fíli’s shoulders, rutting mindlessly against his brother’s hip as his voice dipped low and thrummed with satisfaction. “You wanted me so badly you put them there.” 

_You want me so badly you’ll stay and keep them there._

He heard the catch in Fíli’s breath and watched Fíli’s eyes flicker down as he breathed, “Oh.” Then, “Oh, baby, yes, I always want you.” His hands tightened minutely and Kíli shivered, too distracted by the faint ache to protest the pet-name. “I love you.” 

“Let’s do it again.”

“It’s too soon, you could be hurt-”

“Just your fingers, it’ll be good, please.” Kíli kissed him, hoping his lips could say what his tongue couldn’t. Maybe it worked, maybe Fíli understood, because he led Kíli back to bed with steady, strong hands. “It’ll be good,” Kíli promised again as Fíli slid between his splayed thighs.

\---

It was. Tender flesh and clever fingers and once, twice, almost-shy licks against the faint blue on his hips until Kíli tugged him up and pulled him close and they ground to a messy climax over Kíli’s belly.

\----

Later, Fíli would learn to leave little bites, suck in bruises, barely scrape his teeth along the shaft of Kíli’s erection. Later, he would drive Kíli mad with nothing but his mouth on last night’s bruises and his fingers deep in Kíli’s body, stretching and pressing perfectly. Later, Kíli would demand _more_ and _deeper_ and get it (or not, and the tease would make him angry and hard and more demanding than ever). Later, Kíli would ride his brother hard, taking his pleasure as Fíli’s hands held his thighs, nails biting just enough to make Kíli shudder and rock faster. Later, Fíli would take him again in the morning, refusing to go fast when Kíli was sore but trailing his nails down Kíli’s spine and biting down on a sensitive nipple as he slid in with exquisite slowness. 

This first morning, Fíli watched him fall apart, held him close afterward, worried and frowned until Kíli peppered his face with kisses – chin, lip, eyelid, nose – interspaced with _I liked it, I loved it, I love you_ until Fíli was laughing under his hands and pulling him in to kiss him properly.


	8. Wings of Miracles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ori was a miracle_

Ori was a miracle.

His parents married young, not quite eighty and very much in love. Children of merchants, they were well-off and intelligent despite their youth, and quickly established a successful tailor shop and fabric store in a well-situated spot in the Blue Mountain. They weren’t incredibly wealthy, but they were comfortable, happy with their work, and well-pleased with each other. 

However, like so many dwarves, Yori and Tarua had no children. 

They tried. They went to highly-trained doctors and respected healers, they tried medicines and old wives tales, but they had no luck. 

They begged.

They wept.

But no amount of hope quickened Tarua’s womb and granted them their hearts’ desires. 

Decades passed-

-and became a century. 

Yori and Tarua watched as their friends’ children grew up. They attended birthday celebrations, gave gifts crafted by talented hands, smiled and laughed in public and cried in the privacy of their bedroom above the shop.

_Mahal our Maker_ , they prayed, because medicine failed them, again and again, _please forge us a child._

And then came their first miracle: a miracle of faith.

At 182 years old, Tarua became pregnant. 

They told no one. They had been pregnant before, had gone as far as the fifth month before fate or medicine or terrible bad luck stole away all their hopes. They stayed quiet, and by the seventh month were afraid to speak from a strange sort of superstition. Perhaps they were right to hold their tongues.

They named their first miracle _Dori_ , and he was the light of their lives. 

As their friends became grandparents, Yori and Tarua led their son through his first steps, teased out his first words, adored and loved and held their darling. Where once there were tears, now there was laughter and teasing, hugs and bedtime stories, lessons and good morning kisses. 

But, oh, how they wished to have _another_ , to give their handsome son a little brother or sister, as other dwarves had. 

Twenty years later, their second miracle: a miracle of kindness.

Adoptions were few and far between among dwarves. Even with improvements in medicine, dwarflings were rare, treasured, and well-supported by the entire mountain. But Tuara had a sister who loved her, and who was blessed with all the children Tuara had been denied. Three months before the birth of what would have been her sixth child, she offered the baby to Tuara and Yori, tears in her eyes but a smile of joy on her lips.

They didn’t dare believe it.

It couldn’t happen.

It couldn’t-

They named their second miracle _Nori_ , and he was a scamp from the day of his arrival in the world.

They were almost 240 years old when the obstetrician who had both delivered Nori and helped with their adoption of him came to them and said there was a doctor of Men who wanted to try a procedure on dwarves that sometimes worked for her people. She had tried to speak to younger couples in the fertility clinics, but while there were good relations between the Mountain and the world of Men, dwarves didn’t trust the big folk with their medical care.

“It might work,” she said, “or it might fail. But you’ve faced failure before.”

They tried. At first it failed. But the doctor of Men was right: they had faced failure before.

They’d had miracles before, as well. And they did again.

The day Ori was born, he appeared on every newspaper in the mountain; within days, his tiny, newborn face appeared on papers throughout the dwarf settlements.

_Miracle Baby Born in Erid Luin_ , read the headlines, and even the most eloquent of writers had trouble remaining detached and professional as they wrote of this medical miracle the Men called _in vitro fertilization._

The fervor died down in a year or so, and by the time he was three years old, no one remembered Ori, son of Yori, the first successful in vitro delivery among the dwarves. After the fervor around his birth, many others followed in his wake (too many failures, yes, but a precious number of successses as well). 

To his mother, to his father, and to his brothers, however, Ori remained a miracle.

Their third miracle.

\----

Ori was an orphan.

It was a simple accident on the roads of Dale. Yori and Tuara were out for a date night, their children in the care of Yori’s brother, when there was a three-car accident that included their taxi. 

They died four days later, within hours of each other.

Ori was nine years old. 

\----

Ori was loved.

He would never know about those first weeks after his parents’ death He never saw Dori’s panic (only 66 years old and starting college), his tears, the angry flashes of resentment as he withdrew from design classes and took a job at a small security firm that would take and train him while also issuing a paycheck. He didn’t understand that Nori sneaked out to work in Erebor’s fledgling film industry, where being in your 40s and not anywhere close to an adult was overlooked if you had clever hands and a good eye for basic special effects. . He didn’t know, as a child, that the shop his parents had built out of love couldn’t go to Dori because he wasn’t in his majority, and so one of his uncles took control and Dori just . . . couldn’t fight to get it back, when he was 70 and working full time and raising a child while trying to keep Nori out of trouble. He never saw his too-young brothers in the afternoons, slumped at the kitchen table, heartbroken and exhausted and overwhelmed.

Ori knew only this:

Dori tucked him in at night, always with a story and a kiss and an expert adjustment of the blankets that made him just the right amount of warm.

Nori woke him up in the morning, letting in the sunlight and teasing him out of bed and bunging him in the bath, where he fastidiously washed and fussed over his little brother’s scrubby hair.

Dori packed his lunches for class, and Nori sneaked in cookies while Dori wasn’t looking.

Nori taught him simple magic tricks, sleight of hand and is-this-your-card, and they practiced on Dori’s prized silver spoons.

Dori protected stores and Nori worked overnight and Ori knew, always knew, that he was loved and wanted and treasured.

\----

Ori was a prodigy.

He was 12 years old the first time he sat at a keyboard. It was a rather beat-up hand-me-down from his kind aunt (mother of five and offered to take him in, but his brothers would have none of it), but he loved it. He loved the feel of the keys and the fact that he could make something beautiful just with the press of his fingertips. He spent so much time tapping away at it that the same aunt offered to help Dori get him some lessons for his birthday. 

He blew his teacher away.

Ori played as if he was born with his hands on the keys. He played by ear, he played by sheet music, he played by heart – four months after his first lesson, Ori composed his first work.

Music became his _world_. When he played, he wasn’t the orphan or the quiet one or the odd one. He was a _master_. He created something beautiful where before there was silence. He lived, breathed, and slept music, even as Dori took on extra shifts to cover his tutors and Nori spent more and more time on sets and left school entirely. 

His brothers fought over what to do with him.

“He has to be a kid!” Nori insisted as Ori scribbled out a sonata. “You can’t let him do nothing but music! He needs to run around the halls and play!”

“He wants to do it! They say he’s a genius,” Dori hissed back as Ori stained his fingertips on flats and sharps. “He’ll hate us if we don’t let him. Besides, what did you get out of running around the mountain? A taste for drugs and three arrests?”

“I told you I’m _off_ that-”

Dori won.

Ori’s childhood became a land of piano keys, dancing notes, and sounds so freeing they became paintings of music and heart.

\----

Ori was odd.

When Dori took him shopping for clothes, Ori flittered from one side of the store to the other, and piled items from both sides. He liked green camo t-shirts and pink shorts; blue jeans and ruffled tops, and nothing was better for lounging around the house in than a warm wool skirt. 

Dori let him buy and wear what he wanted. He’d even knit his little brother warm sweaters and jackets in soft pastels and rich browns. When one of his primary teachers fussed over his choice in clothing, Dori would have none of it, and Nori shrugged and agreed (Nori generally just thought Ori was “dangerously cute and possibly not appropriate for public consumption until the adorable factor goes down a bit”). 

Ori composed music in fluffy sweaters and thick socks and long skirts of the softest wool. He liked sweater vests and dress pants; he liked browns and golds and purples and pinks and any other colors that caught his fancy. His closet was too colorful for a dwarf, too soft for a male, and too handmade for a successful musician.

He didn’t care.

Ori loved being comfortable.

\----

Ori was awkward.

He was kind, and loving, and had excellent manners, but he didn’t know how to deal with people. One moment he was silent and shy; the next he blurted out anything he was thinking. He spent the majority of his formative years surrounded by dwarves four times his age or more. By his forties he was performing in the Blue Mountains, in the Iron Hills, in Moria, even once in Erebor with the great orchestra there. He released albums that sold well for classical pieces and classical-style originals, especially since Dori wouldn’t allow him on talk shows and news programs. Piano players asked to teach him, loved working with him, and his tutors in other areas were pleased as well; he was a good student. Even the last name assigned him by Men – _Scribner_ – paid homage not to his father as most dwarf names did, but to his capacity for composition and study. He was bright, but he studied alone most of the time, under Dori as much as anyone, and so other children found him a little strange.

He didn’t mind, for years he didn’t mind. He had music, and he had his brothers. He was happy.

It was Nori, trouble-making Nori, with his taste for illegal pipeweeds and high-tech explosions, who talked Ori into attending a university like a normal 63-year-old. He even suggested Gondor, claiming that Ori could “learn something different and get the halls away from home.” He promised to keep an eye on Dori, swore he would write, and helped pack Ori’s bag.

If Dori was decidedly teary-eyed dropping him off in Gondor, they didn’t mention it (though Ori did check in with his brother about once a day). 

Ori was odd at Gondor, too, because he still went from shy to bold and back again, because he didn’t like loud parties or dip into Nori’s style of smoking, because he didn’t know television shows or popular music or alcohol. He knew accelerando and intermezzo and rubato.

There were other students who loved music like he did, a handful of fellow devotees, but they were all a little unnerved by the presence of a dwarf who was, in music circles, already a legend with albums to his name by the age of fifty. Most of them viewed him with awe, jealousy, or both. 

Then, he met Fíli.

Fíli was famous himself, for “nothing but being born,” as he wryly claimed.

Fíli wasn’t a prodigy, but he was _good_ , exceptionally well-trained, and he accepted both the shy and quiet Ori and the blurting thoughts Ori. He loved Ori’s classical music; he introduced Ori to popular music. He made Ori go out; he stayed in and spent hours writing duets for violin and piano. 

Fíli was Ori’s friend.

Then, Fíli became Ori’s muse.

Fíli’s little brother loved dwarf metal, and Fíli loved to talk about his brother and listen to the music Kíli sent him. One night, after too many hours with a composition they needed for a final (but which clearly hated them), Fíli threw up his hands and turned on a song from _Iron Hills’_ second album. It was the growling-est, noisiest, angriest song Kíli had ever sent him.

And he played his violin along with it.

Ori’s fingers twitched toward the keys of his keyboard (top of the line now, provided by the company), pressed, played.

It was a mess.

But it was fascinating.

Ori looked at Fíli. Fíli looked back.

They grinned.

\-----

Ori was a musician.

When Fíli went home to Erebor to stay, he told Ori two things:

“I’m in love with my brother.”

_(less of a shock than it should have been; Kíli had come to Gondor once, and Ori had been on his way out as Kíli came in – Kíli a bit cold, when Fíli has always said he was friendly – but there was something there, something in that very coldness, in a protective slide to his brother’s side, that made sense when Fíli said the words, nudged into place alongside Fíli’s delicate longing for home, fit in with the passion and occasional darkness in Fíli’s music)_

And-

“I want you to come with me.”

_(more of a shock, since he’d carefully prepared himself for the end of this, his first proper friendship, since isn’t that what friendships did? Ended? Nori certainly thought so, and had warned Ori more than once to watch his wallet and his heart)_

“To Erebor?”

“To Erebor.”

“For how long?”

“As long as it takes to make our music happen. As long as it takes to build a band, and convince the orchestra, and record an album, and see if this idea of ours will work.”

“That could be years.”

Fíli grinned at him, all confidence. “You have somewhere you need to get to in a hurry?”

Ori moved to Erebor.

He met Kíli, and eventually earned Kíli’s forgiveness for being there with Fíli when Kíli wasn’t. He met Gimli, and felt a little like a big brother for the first time in his life. He met the infamous “Uncle Thorin,” and found him less terrifying as advertised (distant and watchful in a way that reminded him just a little of Nori). He met Fíli’s fierce cousin Dwalin, and felt a hint of a flush across his nose and cheeks as the huge dwarf’s fingers danced over the strings of his cello. He met Bofur and Bilbo, and sighed as he realized he’d just inadvertently inherited something like another pair of big brothers. 

When Heirs of Durin was ready to record an album, and they had a bona-fide elven prince in their midst along with the outrageous sons of Dis, and Gloin said they might consider hiring some security, Ori knew exactly whom to hire. When Kíli and Bofur started making noises about pyrotechnics and light effects at their stage shows, Ori had a name in mind. 

They fit in perfectly: his overprotective Dori, who treated their ancient elves like underfed dwarflings; his creative and sarcastic Nori, designing shows that made front-page news around the world.

Ori was home.


	9. Lyrics in His Fingertips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _like warrior kings_
> 
> [Lyrics in his Fingertips](http://linane-art.tumblr.com/post/111047732316/lyrics-in-his-fingertips-fullsize-there-were)   
> 

Fíli loved sleeping in.

He’d never been able to do it at university. In Gondor, every day was an early day, rushing from bed for a shower, for the gym, for a class (too many classes, his load too heavy, but he wanted to learn _everything_ and he wanted to get home, all at once), to meet Ori or another student he was working on composition projects with. But Fíli’s natural inclination was to curl up in the blankets and let the sun rise on her own without any assistance from him.

He had taken shameless advantage of lying in since coming home, since having his own place and nowhere he had to be immediately, since setting his own schedule to meet with Ori, Gimli, and Kíli to work on their music and plans for their band or to occasionally assist at the Orchestra. He slept in, perfectly toasty under the covers, not even waking when Kíli, the early riser, slipped out of bed to putter around and eventually make the coffee he used to bribe Fíli to wakefulness.

But the best part of late mornings was that the first thing he saw every day was an amused Kíli, coffee cup in hand and hair still a bit of a mess. Occasionally there was less coffee and more emergency mints and groping, which was even better. 

And sometimes, now and then, Kíli would surprise him, and those mornings burrowed into his memory and woke in his music and those were the best of all.

 

Fíli woke to a dip in the mattress, a pressure on his ankle, and his brother’s eyes.

The lights were on, dimmed low but bright enough for Fíli to see his brother’s face as Kíli slid one knee on the bed - enough to see Kíli’s eyes, dark and intense, the curve of his jaw and the tilt of his lips. 

“Mmm?” he asked, because Kíli didn’t usually wake him, and hadn’t properly done so now – he felt warm and pliant, his muscles still sleeping and his mind in that half-awake stage that made everything feel like a dream.

And maybe it was, because the look in Kíli’s eyes-

-he’d never seen that look before.

The temperature dropped sharply in the night, and Kíli had laughingly pulled the furs he’d stolen from the lakehouse over them, cuddling close as Fíli muttered about cold fingertips and colder toes. But flames burned in the hearth now, and the furs were tangled around his legs while his chest was bare – and Kíli was looking at him as in a way that sent warmth along his spine and sparks through his groin. There was music in gentle cadence of Kíli’s breaths.

_If I must dream,_ he thought, _let it be of this._

Hands stroked over his legs, long fingers, familiar palms, as Kíli shifted forward. 

Fíli could have spoken, could have murmured a low good morning, or laughed and asked for some of the coffee he could smell from their small kitchen, but he didn’t. Something stopped him, something in Kíli’s hands, trailing across the soft fur and up to trace, just a moment, over the curls at the base of his belly.  
There were lyrics in Kíli’s fingertips, a swell of adoration as they curled around the sleek fur and tugged it down. His lips were parted, his eyes dark and intense, the callouses on his palms catching on Fíli’s skin in juxtaposition to the soft blankets. Fíli started to reach for him (wanted to touch, needed to touch), but a minute shake of Kíli’s head stopped him.

“Fíli,” Kíli breathed, and Fíli had never felt more humbled or more empowered in his life. “I just want to touch you.”

_What do you see?_ Fíli wondered, but he didn’t give the words voice, only held them in his throat. _You look at me like I hold the mountain in my hands. Do you know what I see when I look at you?_

There were no words for that, not for Fíli. He didn’t have the words to capture the beauty of Kíli in their home, firelight on his bare skin and lust in his eyes. He didn’t try. 

He would, later, not with words but with notes, with violin and drums, viola, piano, anything that might help him twist this moment into notes on a page and music in the air. Now, though-

Now he gave Kíli what he wanted.

With a slow smile, Fíli lifted his arms above his head, watching the flicker of Kíli’s gaze along his chest and neck as he did so. Then the furs were to his thighs and there it was – the break in rhythm, Kíli’s breath catching at the sight of Fíli’s cock, half hard and waiting for him.

(Fíli should have been embarrassed, was almost surprised he wasn’t, but how could he be, with Kíli’s lips parted like that, the flicker of tongue, and then the fur was gone save a tangle around one foot, and Kíli’s hands were on his shins.)

Sex still felt _new_ sometime, though they’d figured out all the elbows and made love all over their apartment, the lake house, even the SUV. They’d laughed, or moaned, or dug in nails or fumbled or gotten it just right, but this-

This was _deliberate,_ this was-

Kíli took his time.

He didn’t say anything, at least not beyond an occasional murmur of Fíli’s name as he pressed his lips to Fíli’s ankle. The difference in textures – soft lips, the rough scrape of thin beard, made Fíli’s foot jerk and Kíli chuckled warmly against his skin. 

He tasted. 

Flickers of tongue, scrape of teeth, hands and nails trailing up Fíli’s shins, his thighs, flicker of tongue along his cock before Kíli moved on. His impatient Kíli moved so slowly, explored so thoroughly (sucked at Fíli’s fingers, nibbled along his ribs, breathed against the sensitive skin of Fíli’s elbow) that it felt as if hours flowed by, unnoticed.

And the whole time, Kíli _watched_ , gaze flickering over Fíli’s body, and it was almost like being catalogued and almost like being worshipped and exactly like being loved. 

Kíli pressed a kiss to Fíli’s chest, over the beating of his heart, and Fíli had to move, one hand rising and tangling in the dark hair as Kíli hummed a little countermelody along his skin. 

_I love you,_ he thought, as if something so simple could encapsulate this moment, this person, could capture everything that Kíli was to him and make it solid. 

When Kíli finally kissed him, lips on lips, a brush of noses, Fíli smiled and let his thighs part, lifted his hips.

This earned him another kiss, slow and sweet, soft, wet sounds on mingled breath. “Yes,” against Fíli’s bottom lip, and Kíli straightened to reach for the bedside table.

Fíli always remembered the first time, Kíli’s trembling fingers and staccato breaths. Now Kíli’s fingers were deft, stretching and stroking, his mouth nibbling distractions into Fíli’s skin until Fíli was moving against them, wanting more, wanting to see Kíli’s eyes again. He didn’t fumble with the condom, slid it on with a flash of a saucy grin because condoms meant _sex right now_ , even of the slow, lazy morning variety.

He pressed a hand to his brother’s neck, thumb along the pulse. A hum and beat, hum and beat, Kíli alive and tilting into his hand.

Kíli kissed him as he pressed in, sucking away the little hiss of not-quite-discomfort, soothing fingers along Fíli’s side. He moved slowly, and Fíli traced the shape of one thigh tucked under his own. 

His brother always looked a little awed when they did this, when he slid in and pushed deep, when they became one body. Fíli loved him for it, loved him for the stretch, loved him for the flush across his cheeks and the soft, involuntary pants of sound under his breath.

Fíli imagined what they looked like, he on his back, Kíli between his legs, tucked as close as he could be, burrowing his hands under Fíli’s shoulders as his hips began to move in rhythmic thrusts. He imagined the roll of Kíli’s back, ran his hands down the arch of Kíli’s spine. _Felt_ Kíli inside him, arched to meet it, twisted and shuddered when Kíli found – _yes_ – and pressed, pressed, short thrusts and just-

A mouth on his, heartbeats and breaths, the low harmony of moans, the rhythm of skin on skin, the melody of his name of Kíli’s lips as Fíli wrapped his arms around his brother’s back and held on. 

He didn’t want it to end, this slow combination of their melodies, but finally he felt the shift in Kíli’s movements, shorter but faster, the pants for air beside his cheek. “With me,” Fíli whispered, for the shiver that went down Kíli’s back, the low whine in Kíli’s throat as he sat back on his heels. 

A little lube and Fíli was stroking himself off quickly, watching Kíli. Kíli, whose eyes were wide and astonished, his gaze on Fíli’s cock and below, as he moved, as he watched himself inside Fíli’s body and-

It was a near thing. They almost came together, close enough, Kíli’s low groan just a few strokes before Fíli’s hips jerked and tightened. The music of their movements fractured, the shared tempo broken, but they came together again with slow kisses and stroking hands. 

\----

“What brought that on?” Fíli asked later, damp from the shower and reclining lazily in his brother’s arms on the nest of pillows that Kíli insisted cover their sofa.

Kíli blushed.

“Oh, now you _have_ to tell me!” Fíli pressed, lifting the hand resting on his stomach to kiss a fingertip before giving it a little suck. “I have to make sure I do it again.”

Kíli growled under his breath, but he answered. Fíli knew he would. 

“You looked….” Kíli buried his face in Fíli’s hair, hiding, and his words were muffled. “You looked like something from the past, an ancient warrior-king, all wrapped up in those furs.” Fíli could feel him steal a peek, though he couldn’t see him from this angle. “I had to touch you.”

Fíli laughed, but not maliciously, because that confession was just like Kíli. “An ancient warrior king,” he mused. “I think I like that.”

“You’re a brat.” Kíli sighed. “But a sexy one, which is my burden to bear.”

Fíli’s smile was slow, his eyes narrowing. “How sexy, exactly?”

Kíli’s nose nuzzled hair out of the way and lips pressed to Fíli’s neck. When he spoke, there was a little shiver in his voice, but he got the words out. Talking like this was new, but they both liked it, when they worked up the nerve. “You were all...all pale skin and muscle, your hair was all over and - just. It made me think of the stories Thorin used to tell us when we were kids, about kings under the mountain, and quests, and dragons. And you looked just like I imagined them, with all those furs covering parts of you up. I wanted to be part of that story too.” 

“So you were my concubine?” Fíli asked with a grin. Kíli had a beautiful voice, deep and richer than he knew. Fíli always liked to keep him talking, though of course he couldn’t let Kíli know it. 

Kíli scoffed disapproval against the sensitive skin of Fíli’s neck. “I was your consort, of course, and your heir.” A derisive snort. “ _Concubine._ You’ve spent too much time with Men, brother.”

Something warm spread in Fíli’s chest, but something icy too. One came from love, the kind that makes breaths worth taking; the other from desires unfulfilled, laws that stood in the way of what he would, if only he could.

“Of course,” he agreed, and stroked Kíli’s cheek until his brother lifted his head and he could kiss vows into his lips that he couldn’t write down on paper.


	10. The World Against You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _But they are like brothers to him._

Gimli didn’t understand being in love. 

Not like this. Not with the world against you, watching your every move.

The first tabloid came out two weeks after Fíli moved home to Erebor. Throwing all caution to the wind – and despite the muttering of Gloin’s own parents – Fíli and Kíli went on a _date_ to the midsummer faire, one of the most popular and crowded events of the year. Gimli saw them briefly, walking hand-in-hand like fifty-year-olds, Kíli beaming at the world like he’d been given a gift, Fíli’s gaze held by that smile. 

He’d heard his parents whispering about it, of course, how his cousins had moved beyond “a little too close” to something else entirely; murmurs about how to keep Gimli away from them, as if he wasn’t over sixty and living on his own and capable of deciding for himself if Fíli and Kíli were a bad influence (they weren’t, Halls, he didn’t even have a brother or sister and they were his closest cousins; what did his parents think they were going to influence him to do?). This was the first he’d seen of the change however, and he did stop a moment and stare – and waited for his stomach to turn or disgust to rise in his chest. 

It didn’t. 

And that . . . worried him. Shouldn’t he? Shouldn’t anyone feel disgust at . . . this?

But then Kíli waved at him, and he was grinning like Gimli hadn’t seen for two years, bright and happy. Gimli raised a hand in return, but his friends pulled him on into the crowd, rushing through the day because he had to be at the grocer’s for the afternoon shift.

The pictures were almost innocuous, really. Fíli smiling his slow-pleased-smile as he bought Kíli some ridiculous cotton candy. Kíli nibbling at it while peeking over the top teasingly. Fíli stealing a bit, Kíli laughing and pulling it away-

The kiss.

The kiss wasn’t deep, or wild, or-

But it was on the mouth, a flicker of Fíli’s tongue catching a thread of blue off Kíli’s lip, and it was all over.

They were _everywhere_.

Every gossip rag in Erebor and Dale featured an image of the incestuous sons of Durin on its cover, superimposed with melodramatic headlines: _ROYAL BROTHERS FLAUNT RELATIONSHIP; NEAR RIOT AT MIDSUMMER FAIRE; ROYAL FAMILY IN TEARS OVER SHAMEFUL BEHAVIOR_. It didn’t matter to any of the tabloids that Fíli and Kíli were no more royals than your average mining foreman, the family having given up the throne when cousin Dis was only a child, or that there’d been very little reaction at the faire other than some confused whispering as people tried to place who the familiar kissing faces were. Even Gimli’s friends had taken a moment to figure out who they were, since Fíli had been away so long and the news had been ignoring them for a couple of decades. The pages were filled with hyperbole and conjecture, along with a handful of interviews with dwarves who had gone to school with Fíli or Kíli and hated them from day one for being wealthy and famous. 

_“Always suspected the older one was a pervert,”_ one of them said, and Gimli saw red. He remembered this idiot. Hit on Fíli just about daily, and didn’t like no as an answer from someone as “pretty” as Fíli. _“Probably started all this when the little one was still a kid.”_

A pervert?!

Fíli?!

Fíli was many things. Annoying. Handsome. Given to swagger. Sometimes over-confident. Thoughtful. A pain in the ass to wrestle with (he was _slippery_ ). But definitely not a pervert. And Kíli, if he didn’t want something, well, he’d just punch Fíli in the face and be done with it. Wouldn’t be the first time. His cousins had knocked each other flat plenty of times over the years, especially since Thorin and Gloin insisted they all learn classic weaponry, at least until Fíli pulled out because he didn’t want to damage his hands. 

He threw the paper in the trash and marched to the door.

“Where are you going?” his mother asked.

“To see Fíli and Kíli.”

His parents exchanged a look that only served to piss Gimli off more. Gimli, despite being an opinionated little cuss (according to their shared cousin Dwalin), had always gotten on rather well with his parents. But this-

He grabbed the paper and pulled it out, the glossy cover tearing in his furious fingers. “I am _going_ ,” he said firmly, “to see _Fíli and Kíli_.”

The _together_ was implied.

He slammed the door shut behind him, for emphasis.

(But no, he didn’t miss the softening of their expressions or the flash of pride in his mother’s eyes.)

~~~~

Gimli didn’t understand being in love, but he knew Fíli and Kíli loved each other.

Had always loved each other.

Would always love each other.

In whatever weird-ass way they saw fit.

It was weird, sure, most of his friends would rather swim in knives than lay one on their siblings, but Fíli and Kíli had never been like that. They’d always been close – not _creepily_ so (no matter what those jerks in the interviews said) – but more like best friends than brothers. They knew how to push each other’s buttons and have fights, of course, but they’d sort of outgrown that sometime in their fifties. No, they’d apparently decided to adopt _Gimli_ as the little brother, and dedicated their well-documented shared intelligence to getting on _his_ nerves and pushing _his_ buttons and being in _his_ business. 

Gimli didn’t have any brothers, but he had Fíli and Kíli, and that was almost as bad.

Kíli’d been a droopy whiner of epic proportions since Fíli went off to Gondor. This would have to be better than that. A happy Kíli was certainly the best Kíli.

But why they had to be so _obvious_ about it, why they couldn’t be more _discreet_ , just act like they always had out in public and only engage in prolonged romantic cuddling at _home_ -

-that he didn’t understand.

Until the day Kíli came to Gimli’s apartment, over six months after the first tabloids hit the stands, bruised and bleeding, half his hair chopped off and one eye almost swollen shut, and said, “Don’t tell Fíli.”

Of course, Gimli made no such promise, and called Fíli immediately.

“What happened?” Fíli demanded as he ran a cloth under hot water.

“Nothing,” Kíli told him, glaring mutinously at Gimli out of his good eye. 

Gimli shrugged unapologetically. Fíli would have killed him for harboring an injured Kíli, and he was too young and handsome to die. 

Well, and Kíli needed him. Even Gimli could see that, in the shaking of Kíli’s hands and the delicate hitches of his breath.

Fíli knelt in front of his brother, his eyes as fierce as they’d ever been on the training field, but when he pressed the cloth to Kíli’s cheek it was with infinite gentleness. “What happened?” he asked again, a whisper, and his eyes were too-bright. 

Kíli bowed down, his shoulders falling as if he’d lost the will to hold them up in the span of seconds. “There were four of them,” he said, a broken confession, “they said we were sick.” Gimli’s breath caught. Kíli peeked out from behind his hair to say, “I laid two of them out,” with a flash of defiant pride, “but there were two more, and it was a narrow hallway.”

“Do you know who they were?”

“Yes.” A breath. “I knew. I’ve known them for years.”

The fingers touching Kíli’s cheek (already swollen and darkening) stroked gently as Fíli breathed, “ _Baby_ ,” but his jaw looked to be cut from stone.

“Don’t call me that,” Kíli said, leaning into the hand, closing his eyes, curving forward. 

Something in Gimli’s chest clenched. Kíli was never meant to look like this, tired and a little bit broken. He was meant to be loud and noisy, friendly and playful. Even when Fíli had been away, and he’d sulked so much, he’d smiled and laughed and brightened Gimli’s days when Gimli was feeling especially difficult and grumpy.

_How could anyone touch Kíli?_

Fíli kissed him.

Kissed his forehead, kissed the blackened eye, kissed his swollen cheek, his split lip. They were whispered ghosts of kisses, breathed words Gimli couldn’t make out as Kíli leaned more heavily into his brother’s arms.

Gimli wanted to _hit_ something, hit _someone_ , hunt these people down and crack them down the center for the pain in Kíli’s face and the fury in Fíli’s eyes. How could anyone doubt they were meant to be anything but together? 

How had he ever thought he should doubt it, and felt guilty that he didn’t?

He gathered painkillers and ice packs, heated up towels, bustled around at Fíli’s quiet request until Kíli was asleep, curled up on the sofa and holding Fíli’s hand. 

“Impressive,” Gimli said, because the atmosphere in the room was too heavy, too dark, “I didn’t know he actually slept.” 

Fíli gave him a little smile. “Occasionally,” he answered, “but usually he kicks.” He stroked Kíli’s ever-messy bangs away from his face. The hair on his right side was a mess, chopped unevenly and starting to curl without the weight to pull it straight, like in the pictures Gimli’d seen of him as a gap-toothed child. “Thank you for calling me.”

“He didn’t really want you not to know.” _Or I wouldn’t have called_ , Gimli thought. But Kíli had come here because it was closer, and safe, and Fíli had been away all day, not because he really wanted this to be a secret, or thought he could get away with making it one.

“I know.” Fili motioned Gimli forward, pushing to stand when Gimli obeyed. “You stay here.”

“What?” Gimli asked as his cousin grabbed him by the shoulders and muscled him around, pushing on his shoulders until he was squatting uncomfortably by the sofa.

“Wait here. I don’t want him alone right now.”

Gimli looked at Kíli. It was hard to remember Kíli was older than him, with his swollen face all squashed into the pillows like that. “If you’re going to find the idiots who did this-”

Fíli’s eyes narrowed into dangerous sparks of blue. “Oh,” he said, his voice dipping low and Gimli had never, never seen him like this. Fíli sprawled, Fíli swaggered, Fíli smirked. He didn’t look like he could kill someone with his bare hands. “I am.” The tilt of his jaw dared Gimli to stop him.

He didn’t.

“Then you shouldn’t go alone,” Gimli finished. “Let me come with you.”

Fíli smiled. It was a flash of his gentle smile, the one Gimli remembered probably from the cradle, protective and kind. It was the smile that made Gimli wonder sometimes, what Erebor would have been like with his cousin as king. “This is for me to handle,” he said, but warmly, “you stay here with Kíli.”

“But your hands-”

“He’s more important, Gimli,” he said, and he meant it.

He meant it.

Gimli stayed.

\----- 

Gimli didn’t understand being in love, but he heard it in Fíli’s every word.

Fíli came back with torn knuckles (those hands he jealously guarded, cracked and bruised and he didn't even bother to ice them, didn't try to wrap them), a hint of dried blood at the new split in his lip, and something wild in his eyes. Gimli wondered if anyone would press charges as he puttered in his tiny kitchen making tea. He lived on his own, had done since his 60th birthday; that was why he worked at the grocers down in Dale, and why Kíli had known he could come here and get away from staring eyes without having to be alone. 

He spent longer than needed over the kettle, still more than a little awkward about the idea of Fíli and Kíli possibly cuddling on his personal sofa. His sofa had, thus far, been a complete cuddle-free zone. He even considered baking cookies – thought he should have, while Kíli was sleeping, he wasn’t half bad at it – but decided he’d ask first. He’d hate to make a couple dozen and then have no one eat them.

He walked into a fight.

Or…something like a fight.

“It would be better for the band!” Kíli was arguing, and Gimli knew what that meant, of course. Fíli’s dream of a band that combined dwarvish and elvish music; he’d seen some of the sheets, heard some of it, was meant to be a part of it. He’d already helped fill in some of the songs with guitar, adding depth to Fíli’s violin and Ori’s piano and the controlled wildness of Kíli’s drums. “Just – you can find another drummer. I’m not a genius like Ori, or a visionary like you. And then-and then this,” he motioned between them, “wouldn’t be a distraction-”

Fíli was livid. So upset his ever-steady hands were shaking, skinned across the knuckles and trembling in the wrists. “No,” he said, and his voice invited no argument.

“I don’t want this to mess up your dreams of-”

“No.”

“You know what Thorin said, that no one will listen because of us-”

“I said no!” Fíli burst out, and it had been years since Gimli heard him yell like that. Kíli and his mother and Thorin were all yellers, but not Fíli, not in a proper fight, away from the training field. He had more of his father in him. He surged forward, an almost forceful movement, and Gimli winced – he shouldn’t grab Kíli, not like this, it wouldn’t be right-

He didn’t.

Fili didn’t grab him, or punch him, or any of the other images that flashed through Gimli’s head from memories of their scraps when they were in their forties and Gimli a wide-eyed spectator.

He straddled Kíli’s thighs, sat in his lap like it was perfectly normal, and took Kíli’s face in his hands as if Kíli were made of spun glass.

“No,” Fíli said, and his voice was softer now, but still firm, immovable as the stone of the mountain. “I don’t care what Thorin says. I don’t care what Gloin says. I know you want the band as much as I do. I know you feel it, in your blood, like I do. Like Ori, and Gimli. Don’t you _dare_ say,” that steady voice cracked, just once, “ that you can be replaced.” 

“Fíli-” Kíli’s hands rose and settled, delicately, on his brother’s hips. He tried to look away, but Fíli held him with infinite, unbreaking gentleness.

“I love you,” Fíli said, and something in Kíli snapped, his rigid back curving at the words. “I love you. Never,” his voice hardened but his thumbs stroked along Kíli’s jaw, “ _neve_ r act like I want any part of our dream without you there, ever again.”

Kíli’s arms slid around him, and he buried his face in Fíli’s shoulder as Fíli let his hands slide up to run careful fingers through Kíli’s hair. “You are more important,” Fíli told him, as if it was law, as if it was inked in Fíli’s heart and bled into his voice, “than anything else in the world.”

Gimli hoped Fíli had at least broken some arms, for making them feel like this. If not, Gimli might have to do something about that himself.

Kíli took a slow breath. “I know,” he said, his voice muffled.

“Good. Then no more talk about you leaving the band.”

“Okay.”

“Promise?”

A low chuckle, Kíli’s hands fisting in Fíli’s shirt. “I promise.”

Fíli took a long, slow breath. When he spoke this time, the firm tone gave way to thick relief. “Thank you.”

They breathed, once, twice, three times, perfectly in synch, before Kíli raised his head and pressed a kiss to Fíli’s cheek. “You have to promise me something, though.”

“What’s that?” Almost a hum, the little thrum to his voice that meant Fíli was fully satisfied with himself. 

“Next time you feel the need to defend my honor and beat the shit out of someone, I get to come too.”

Fíli grinned, a flash of dimples, and rested their foreheads together. “Deal,” he said, and when they kissed, they were smiling.

Gimli shook his head and walked out of the room. "Just keep it indoors," he muttered, because they could avoid all this pain so easily.

But he would love and protect them anyway. They were lovers to each other, yes; but they were as good as brothers to him. 

\-------

Gimli didn’t understand being in love and refusing to hide it, being in love even though society frowned on it; not until three years later, when he looked at his elf, laughing over the fret of his guitar, and felt something in his chest pound and click into place.

He thought of chopped hair and skinned knuckles and tender breaths of kisses and thought: _Oh._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Cupcake Kili or Kili recovering from his hair being cut short](http://linane-art.tumblr.com/post/110593973161/cupcake-kili-fullview-aka-domestic-heirs-kili)   
> 


	11. Inked in Your Skin, Burned in Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _vows in ink_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brief mention of violence
> 
> [Marks of Belonging](http://linane-art.tumblr.com/post/105868600121/marks-of-belonging-fullview-there-was-mist-on)   
> 

Fíli never thought of himself as a violent person.

He was passionate, of course; he was a dwarf, it was to be expected. Dwarves were volatile, especially when it came to protecting their families. But he’d never seen fighting as a particularly good answer to life’s problems. When others at school would leap at each other and start throwing punches, Fíli would step out of the way and watch, talking his way out of trouble or moving too fast to be pinned down.

He had trained in ancient weapons because Dis insisted on it, and he’d enjoyed the challenge, the way he had to push his body and how quickly he had to think in order to be successful. He’d been _good_ , his mind noting patterns in his opponent’s movements much like he heard patterns in music, like the black ink of notes on paper splashing across the floor of the ring. He’d competed in swordplay and wrestling, made something of a name for himself in the former as a fierce fighter who never backed down despite his size and age. It had been a release in a way, a meticulous ferocity that freed all his anger and frustration in the clash of metal and the steady accumulation of points. Even music wasn’t as cathartic as this carefully controlled viciousness.

But he’d abandoned weapons training when he nearly broke his hand one day, and never gone back. 

He still worked out, went to the gym daily, pushed his body to clear his mind. But he didn’t fight anyone, and he’d been almost surprised at how little he missed it, how easy it had been to set down his swords and pick up his bow and never look back. 

Until he saw his brother – his Kíli – bruised and blooded. 

Standing there in his cousin’s small apartment, Fíli understood, abruptly, the idea of _seeing red_. It had splashed across his eyes like blood, and boiled in his chest with fury.

They’d been easy to find. They didn’t even bother to hide, despite the fact that two of them had broken fingers and cracked ribs from Kíli’s fists (Fíli didn’t try to fight down the flash of pride at that, that his brother didn’t go down without a fight, that he would have held his own if it had been two on one, or even three). 

He’d practiced what he would say when he saw them on the way there. How he’d talk about calling the police, and pressing charges, and keep your filthy hands off my brother (Kíli, Kíli who was everything, who was music and laughter and trouble and warmth and sex and love, and how dare they, how _dare_ they-)

But then he saw them, and before they saw him he heard them _laughing_.

“Skinny bitch has had it coming for years, thinking they’re better than everybody. Thinking they can just flaunt it.”

Laughter, sharp and cruel and: “Not like anyone else would want him. His own brother’s the only one who’d want a piece of that. Fucking perverts.” 

The first blow hit the second one’s lower back before he finished the word _perverts_ – Fíli hadn’t recognized the name when Kíli told him, but he recognized his face. He and Kíli had been acquaintances in school, Fíli remembered seeing him in group photos; they’d been on the archery team together. His eyes had lingered on Kíli at matches; Fíli remembered, Fíli saw, not knowing then why it bothered him so much that someone should watch his brother like that.

From there, it was all violence. Cold, calculating violence.

Snarls and orders and knocking one down, remembering how to step aside, pinning the other, leaning in his face and hissing, “ _He will always be better than you_ ,” and a satisfying crack when his fist met the delicate bridge of a nose. His knuckles split, and pain sliced up from the middle finger of his left hand, but he never once thought of violins or strings or _always protect your hands, Fíli_. He thought of dark flesh around Kíli’s eye, and Kíli’s hair curling around his ear, and Kíli’s voice, tight and angry and ashamed.

Kíli should never be ashamed.

Never.

Later, after Kíli offered to leave him, after he refused (would always refuse, had been cut to the quick that Kíli would even offer), when Kíli lay in his arms and curved into his body, Fíli was surprised that he had attacked so suddenly, fought so easily. He’d thought he wasn’t a violent dwarf, he’d thought he was a musician and not a warrior. He’d never attacked with the intent to wound before.

But he didn’t regret it.

No.

He never regretted it.

He would do it again, if he had to, without hesitation.

\----

Kíli healed.

Kíli healed and Fíli hovered, and it was a testament to how upsetting the whole thing had been (though he smiled, of course he smiled, at least when Fíli was watching; but too often Fíli found him alone, glaring silently at nothing, wild hair brushing his cheeks) that Kíli let him hover to his heart’s content.

There weren’t charges. Oh, there were _threats_ of them, and Gloin had been none too pleased at Fíli taking matters into his own hands. “It’s fine Kíli broke three of their fingers,” their manager said crossly, “but _you_ should have called the police.”

Fíli spat back, “I’m sure they would have cared,” because did Gloin think he hadn’t spoken to the police about the threats they received in the mail? Gloin knew about them; he was the one who helped Fíli set up a forwarding service, having all their letters come through his office so they’d stop reaching the house where Kíli could find them when they arrived in the post. The officers had looked at Fíli with thinly-veiled disgust and explained (one had _smiled_ , and Fíli’s hands had curled into fists in the pockets of his coat, fur collar hot against his flushed cheeks) that nothing could be done about anonymous mail threats, and perhaps if he and his brother were a little less . . . unorthodox, this wouldn’t be happening to them. 

Fíli had reigned in his temper (by and large, anyway), but it was a near thing.

In the end, Balin stepped in, at their worried and exasperated mother’s request, and calmly explained that by all means Regin could press charges if he saw fit. Fíli had, indeed, broken his nose, and there were medical costs involved. But only if he also wanted Kíli to return with his own charges against Regin and his three friends, for the unprovoked initial assault, for the cracked rib they’d found a few days later, or the hairline fracture in his left arm. 

The parties had all agreed not to file any reports, and Fíli had faced his uncle’s disappointment head-on, turned his back and walked away when Thorin said, “This could happen again, you can put a stop to it,” in a voice that hurt more because of its gentleness than if he had sounded angry.

He couldn’t put a stop to loving Kíli. He wouldn’t, even if he could. 

The bruises started to fade (too slowly, a constant reminder), and Kíli’s hair would grow back. Fíli secretly liked the hint of curl that more length would pull straight again, liked to brush them back after it was all trimmed to one length and watch Kíli’s hair slide delicately back into place. But he couldn’t tell Kíli that; Kíli, who was too embarrassed to go out in public without a hood up (ancient traditions that wouldn’t die; no dwarf, not even Fíli, would cut his own hair short), who wore t-shirts and sweats to bed when for months he’d rarely bothered with anything at all.

Kíli would heal, his rib would stop aching and his arm be declared whole, but he still flinched a little, pulled away, and Fíli couldn’t stand it. It wasn’t about sex (he missed it, yes, missed Kíli’s skin and Kíli’s voice, but-). It was about Kíli. His Kíli. Kíli, feeling like himself again.

So he decided to do something about it, if he could.

Fíli drew a bath, setting the temperature just as Kíli liked it (not quite hot enough for him, but perfect for his brother). He sprinkled in some bath salts his mother swore by for relaxation. He thought it smelled a bit too much of flowers, but he supposed it was worth a try. He warmed towels and set out shampoo and went to gather his brother from the living room.

“Bath time,” he said with a little grin, tugging the book out of Kíli’s hands (his latest class, something to do with painting) and setting it aside. 

“I took a shower this morning.”

Fíli tsked at him. “Shower time and bath time are two different things,” he said. “This is duet bath time.”

A hint of a smile flickered across Kíli’s lips. “The last time we tried duet bath time you nearly dislocated a hip.”

“Which was entirely your fault for dreaming up that ridiculous position. Legs weren’t meant to go in that direction and I shouldn’t have encouraged you. This will be different.” Fíli began walking backwards to the bathroom, bare feet certain against the cool stone floor. “For one thing, the point is to relax and get clean, not play Overly Ambitious Sexual Contortions, the Home Game.” 

“I’ll try to behave myself.”

Fíli grinned, because there was his brother, the spark in his eyes that warmed Fíli from the ground up.

“It smells like rosemary in here,” Kíli offered as Fíli undressed them both, tossing their clothes in the general direction of the hamper. Their robes were on the warmer as well, ready for when (or if,should Fíli have his way) they were called into service.

“It’s therapeutic.” Fíli stepped into the tub, ignoring Kíli’s curious eyes. “Come on, then.”

“You in back?”

“Me in back,” Fíli confirmed. It was generally easier the other way, given the height difference, but not this time. Fíli settled in and waited until Kíli gingerly slid in front of him (scrunching down a bit) before wrapping his arms around Kíli’s waist. He carefully avoided the sore rib. “See? Duet bath time.”

Kíli hummed quiet agreement. 

For several minutes, Fíli soaked in the warmth, the scents of lemon and rosemary, the feel of Kíli’s skin against his, and the slow release of tension from his brother’s muscles. Kíli slid down a bit more until he could lean his head back against Fíli’s shoulder, making a soft, pleased noise as he did that made Fíli’s chest move in a silent laugh. If Kíli could have his way, they’d trade heights so Fíli would be a more convenient backrest.

With Kíli relaxed, Fíli reached for the new bottle of gel and a slippery-soft washcloth, and went to work. 

He took his time, pressing occasional kisses to Kíli’s neck or temple as he ran the cloth over Kíli’s shoulders, his arm, gently stroked between his fingers and dug his thumbs into Kíli’s palm. He kept Kíli’s injured arm carefully out of the water, but lavished slow attention on the other. “Fíli?” Kíli murmured as Fíli traded out his suds-covered cloth for a fresh one and carefully wiped the suds away.

“Shh. Relax. Just let me take care of you.” 

Kíli squirmed a little, defensively. “I’m fine, you don’t have to baby me, Fíli.”

“I’m not. I like touching you.” Fíli nudged Kíli’s temple with his nose, fully aware that the braids by his mouth would tickle below Kíli’s ear from the movement. Kíli’d complained about it often enough, usually while laughing and wiggling away. “Trust me, this is completely selfish on my part.”

He felt Kíli’s chest move in a sort of scoff, but his brother resettled in his arms. “Well, don’t let me stop you. I know how cranky you get when you can’t do what you want.”

“You’re the cranky one.” Back to the soapy cloth now, and he started running it over Kíli’s chest. He loved looking at Kíli, the crisp contrast of dark hair over fair skin, how Kíli was long and a little softer than Fíli, the slightest hint of a curve to his belly that meant he was whole and healthy and preferred chasing down hobbies to joining Fíli at the gym, though he did come a couple of days a week (grumbling most of the way). 

“Beautiful,” Fíli murmured, because he was, especially the slow shiver when Fíli ran slippery fingers under the water and over the sensitive skin of Kíli’s thighs. Kíli’s cock stirred, aroused by hot water and the feel of Fíli’s body beneath him. 

“Fíli,” Kíli returned, a little embarrassed, and he started to move.

“No, no baby. Stay like this.” Fíli brought his hand all the way up this time, fingertips to Kíli’s jaw, tilting it enough that he could flick his tongue across Kíli’s mouth, slip in for a taste. The touch was delicate, light; Kíli could pull away if he wanted, escape if he needed. “I just want to touch you.” Another kiss, and then, “Can I?”

“Yeah,” a breath, a smile, crinkles at the corners of Kíli’s eyes that Fíli knew would deepen as they grew old together.

Fíli stroked Kíli’s legs, ran the cloth over his knees, slid up to his groin. When the soft cloth ghosted over Kíli’s balls his brother arched up a little, pressing his head against Fíli’s shoulder and making a low, pleased noise that made him harden too (warm skin and beloved voice and the most beautiful body Fíli had ever, would ever see). 

But this wasn’t about Fíli. 

This was about Kíli.

He wrapped his fingers around his brother’s lovely cock and stroked.

Kíli’s lips parted on a deep moan, his hips barely shifting into Fíli’s grip. When they rose, Fíli slid his left hand underneath, slipped in a finger and crooked it just so. He was a fast learner, and good with his hands, and extremely interested in this particular subject.

Kíli kicked out against the edge of the tub, planted his foot, and gave a little gasp for air. But he didn’t try to wiggle away, didn’t turn around and demand kisses, didn’t shove back against Fíli’s hands. He only arched and moaned, and let Fíli take care of him.

There were kisses, lazy ones, slow strokes of tongues and soft, wet noises as they parted and came together. Fíli didn’t rush, just moved his hands in steady rhythm, shivered now and again from the water swirling between them. Kíli trembled in his arms and gasped his name and watched him through heavy-lidded eyes that glinted amber. 

“I love you,” Fíli said, because he had to, because someone had touched him and hurt him and made him doubt for even a moment that he was the most wonderful and mysterious thing in Fíli’s life. Because he had offered to leave. Because he must have thought Fíli could have accepted.

Kíli was melodies and harmonies and notes in his mind and love inked in his skin, though no one could see it. 

Kíli smiled, almost sleepily, as he wrapped his hand around Fíli’s wrist. “I love you,” he answered, and Fíli’s heart skipped a foolish beat even though they were never shy about saying it. “Faster, love. I’m close.”

Kíli usually came with a shout, grinding and demanding, but that afternoon he climaxed on a sigh, tiny movements of his hips against the steady pumping of Fíli’s fingers, slick and hot in the cooling water.

\----

“I wish I could marry you.”

They were curled in bed, bare and warm under the covers, and Kíli was sated and drowsy in his arms. But his brother jerked a little and opened his eyes at his words. “What?”

“I wish I could marry you,” Fíli said again; he’d wanted to say it for weeks, for months, for years, since the sun rose over the lake and bathed Kíli in gold and orange. “I wish we could make vows, and you could know that I belong to you.”

Kíli laughed, but not unkindly. It was a sound filled with wonder more than anything else. “I already know that, Fíli.” He leaned forward and kissed Fíli’s nose, which never failed to make Fíli roll his eyes, even now. “We belong to each other, you great sap.”

The knot in Fíli’s chest unraveled, but there was still something there, around his heart, where vows and papers and celebrations should be. “I know,” he said, and he did, but . . . “But I would – you’re-”

He never worked as well with words as he did with music. 

Kíli smiled. “I know.”

Kíli read him like notes on a page. Clever fingers carded through Fíli’s hair, tugged at a braid, and Kíli was smiling at him like the sun rose in his eyes. 

“You’re – you’re inked into my skin,” Fíli blurted, and where was his infamous swagger now? “You’re there when I breathe. I’m never more proud than when I know you love me.”

Kíli’s lips parted, his eyes wide.

“And I want everyone to see it. I want it to be out there. I want it-”

Kíli kissed him.

It was almost awkward, a little click of teeth, like the first time.

“Inked in your skin,” Kíli whispered against his mouth, and music swelled in Fíli’s mind in the beat of Kíli’s heart and the sound of his voice, “and you say you can’t write lyrics.”

“I can’t.”

Kíli laughed, bright and sharp and essentially him. “Let’s do that, then.”

Fíli frowned, confused. “What?”

“Ink me into your skin. Burn you into mine.” A kiss, another, slow and thorough before he pulled away and grabbed Fíli’s hand, lined their wrists up, side by side. The angle was awkward, but Fíli followed his lead. “Here.”

Fíli stared a moment, then smiled. It was a slow, satisfied smile, the kind that made people want to punch him in the face when they’d had a bit too much to drink. “A tattoo?”

“Yes. Something right here. Something they’ll see when you play the violin or when I’m on the drums. Something obvious. Something that will piss them all off.” Kíli grinned back, sharp and daring. “Let’s spell our vows in ink and fuck anyone who has a problem with it.”

“I’d rather not,” Fíli answered, “I really only want to fuck you.”

Kíli hit him with a pillow, and Fíli’s world was suddenly full of laughter again.

\----

They did it.

A vow in ink, a pair of tattoo artists who were willing to work on them side by side, Fíli and Kíli’s eyes meeting as their blood was wiped away over the finished design: the symbol of the line of Durin, made whole only when they were together, in bold black ink.


	12. All I Am is What I'm Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Dwalin was not so many things_

Dwalin was not a warrior.

He was born to be one. He was the second son of a nobleman, of course, and always intended for the military while his brother trained to take over as lord one day. 

He met his future king, the one his father told him he would one day serve as a personal guard or member of his cabinet, when they were both children. He was younger than Thorin, son of Thrain, by several years, and extremely nervous when first they met.

“It’s important,” his father told him as Fundin checked his clothes and tightened his braids, “that you make a good impression on the prince. He will be king one day, and you are to stand at his side.” A sharp tug on the fluff on his chin made Dwalin yelp but brought his attention firmly to his father’s ever-serious face. “Thorin is older than you. Don’t be childish. Don’t be obnoxious. Act older than you are. Your entire future could depend on this moment.”

Dwalin, quiet and given to being shy, was so nervous when he met the prince ( _your entire future_ a loop in his young head), that he jumped fully two inches in the air and drenched Thorin with punch at their first meeting. All he remembered before he fled the room in horror was his big brother’s gasp of pained surprise and the look of furious disappointment on Fundin’s face.

He heard his parents fighting that night, his mother insisting it wasn’t a lost cause, Thorin was a kind lad; Fundin growling that he should never have let Dwalin near “anyone of quality, he’s utterly useless!”

It stung. 

It stung, but it was true; Dwalin was too big and too clumsy and too shy to be trusted with anything as important as the care of a prince who would one day be king. 

“I’ll do better,” he told his father, hurriedly wiping tears and snot on his sleeve before interrupting the fight. “I’ll learn to fight and when I go back, I’ll do better.”

Fundin stopped and studied him, his cool eyes calculating. 

“You think I should let you try again?” he demanded. “After what you’ve done? Your brother never made such a fool of himself.”

Dwalin wanted to curl up or hide behind his mother, but he didn’t. He was shy but he wasn’t a coward. He straightened his shoulders and clasped his hands behind his back as his father did, and said, “Yes, father.”

Fundin snorted. “We’ll see.”

He sent Dwalin away for weapons training three days later. He was too young, but he was big, already as big as Balin, and the trainers made an exception for him (for his father’s money, for his father’s influence, taking in a child barely 20). His mother packed his bags and kissed his head and held him tight for as long as she could before Fundin pried him away and dropped him off at the barracks with a minimum of ceremony.

The hammers were heavy in his hands, and the other boys were older and meaner and sharper, and there were nights he wanted to cry when they teased and tore him down. 

But he didn’t cry.

Instead, he learned to fight.

He learned to stand his ground. He learned how to dress, how to talk, how to carry himself, and how to fight.

He hated it at first, felt clumsy and useless, but he was a dwarf who could dedicate himself completely and he did, practicing tirelessly for hours a day while staying up with his other lessons, putting in extra hours, doing weight training, running laps, building up his strength and his stamina.

It took years to be good enough – heavy on his feet but graceful, immensely strong, still growing and growing. It was only after he could beat boys twice his age that he felt himself good enough to invite Fundin to one of his tournaments, to show what he’d learned and earn another chance at marching toward his destiny.

But it was too late

Thror, King of Erebor, gave up the throne, and Fundin only said dismissively, “There’s no prestige in protecting private citizens. Further training would be a waste of money.”

Dwalin came home.

\-----

Dwalin was not a prodigy.

He wanted to be. His family wanted him to be. Not long after he returned home from the barracks, Dwalin played his first instrument: a beautifully hand-crafted psaltery, delicate and fine in his broad hands. He found it at the Midsummer faire, and the kindly craftsman gently showed him how to hold it and handed him the bow, and with two tiny twists of his wrists, Dwalin made _music._

He couldn’t imagine anything more different from beating back dwarves with hammers.

It took every penny he had, but he bought it. And within a fortnight, he could play basic songs. As soon as they witnessed this first flash of talent, Fundin and Dayna arranged for him to have lessons with the once-royal children.

Dwalin was confused, given his father’s disgust with the dissolution of the monarchy and the introduction of a republic, but Balin only said, “They’re wealthy and famous,” as if that was a decent reason for their parents to say one thing behind their backs and another to their faces. 

But, ultimately, Dwalin didn’t mind this time. Because while the hammers were heavy and he’d been too shy and too young, the psaltary felt . . . good. Fascinating.

He ran his fingers over the strings and beauty emerged. 

“Focus on Frerin,” Fundin told him this time. “He’s closer to your age and more foolish. You should get on well.”

That they would get along better because Frerin and Dwalin weren’t as intelligent as their brothers was left implied.

But Frerin wasn’t interested in music, not like Dwalin was, and so it was Thorin who sat next to him and corrected his fingering, and smiled at him with serious eyes. It was Thorin who lived and breathed Erebor and taught Dwalin about history and music and culture, Thorin who rarely laughed but often smiled, sly and slow, when they traded cutting commentary on the latest music coming out of Rivendell. 

There was no looking back.

Dwalin first fought because he had to, continued training more out of habit and frustration than anything else. But he played because he _wanted_ to. And he was good at it. Learning the psaltary wasn’t so hard, and when they switched him first to the viola and then to the deep, rich tones of the cello, he took to them as well. Better than Thorin, really, who couldn’t switch between instruments with Dwalin’s ease. Dwalin had a good ear, too, he could play any song put in front of him with a minimum of practice.

His parents were pleased. Fundin, though he didn’t see a great deal of use in the music itself, did see the advantage in having one of his sons involved in the former royal family’s favorite hobby. 

The fact that Dwalin and Thorin were already becoming friends – both quiet, both thoughtful, both buried under expectations they didn’t understand and weren’t sure they could fulfill – did nothing to dissuade Fundin. In fact, he didn’t seem to know.

Everything that he wanted, a son who was friends with the boy who would be king, and Fundin didn’t even notice.

He hired private tutors.

“I want him to be the best,” he told them, “as soon as possible.”

Dwalin read music and could transcribe and pick out harmonies, and his mother began calling him her “young prodigy,” for all that he was over thirty and battle ready.

But he wasn’t a prodigy.

And the more he trained, the more obvious it became.

“He can’t compose,” one of his tutors said regretfully.

“And he plays like a machine,” said another.

“His notes are perfect!” Fundin argued, and they were, but Dwalin knew what his teachers meant.

He played pitch-perfect. But that was all.

He had talent, and he loved the feel of the instruments in his hands, but he couldn’t create anything _new_. He only played impeccably what was placed in front of him. 

Perfect, they said, and flawless. But though Dwalin _felt_ every emotion in the music, lived it and breathed it, he couldn’t send it through his arm. He couldn’t bring it out in the rolling notes of his cello.

His tutors said he played without heart.

“He’ll never be a soloist,” his first concert master said, “but he’ll be a boon to any orchestra he joins.”

It was enough. It had to be enough, and it was, when Thorin started talking about a national orchestra and the first dwarf he wanted at his side was Dwalin, it was enough.

\----

Dwalin was not an uncle.

Balin married but was widowed young, with no children. But Dwalin found himself fulfilling the role of an uncle when Thorin’s little sister started having children. He counted Dis as a friend, and admired her singing as anyone would, but he wouldn’t have considered himself an appropriate babysitter. He was tall and broad and strong and covered in tattoos; not exactly most people’s dream child-watcher. 

But somehow, over the years, Dwalin transformed from Mr. Dwalin to Cousin Dwalin to Uncle Dwalin, until anyone who didn’t know the family dynamics started assuming Dwalin was Dis’s spare sibling and the boys were his responsibility, especially when they decided to be noisy little brats.

Dis and her grinning husband thought it was hilarious, their pair of troublemakers crawling all over Dwalin, bothering him while he played, hanging off his arms, Fíli asking for one more lesson, Kíli begging for one more piggyback. But they did pay him back in their way, inviting Dwalin and Balin both for holidays and dinners, concerts and plays, insisting they come to any event Thorin was expected to attend as a member of the family.

The boys grew up, of course, and didn’t need a babysitter anymore (which firmly didn’t break his cynical old heart), but Dwalin still felt a little responsible for them. 

Even when they decided they were in love with each other. Even when they refused to hide it. Even as he watched Thorin pull away and Dis fight to keep him close, Dwalin still felt responsible for them. 

When Thorin missed three holiday dinners, Dwalin was always there. But he couldn’t replace their real uncle, the one with Fíli’s eyes and Kíli’s coloring, who gave Fíli his first violin and traced Kíli’s fingers on the piano keys. 

Thorin didn’t hate his boys. He couldn’t. Fíli and Kíli had wiggled into his heart as surely as they had into Dwalin’s. But Thorin saw only possible trouble for them, and Dwalin saw . . .

Dwalin saw two young dwarves so deeply in love that it was less about refusing to hide it and more about acknowledging that they couldn’t.

“You’re going to lose them,” Dwalin told Thorin, his greatest friend, his brother in every sense that mattered. In another lifetime, Thorin would have been his king, and Dwalin would have followed him to the halls and back with only minimal complaining, and then only when Thorin really deserved it. 

“I’ve not said a word to them about it,” Thorin argued, using his tried and true tactic of refusing to look up from his paperwork when he knew he was wrong and Dwalin was right. 

Dwalin crossed his arms and filled the doorway, a solid wall of muscle and don’t-give-me-that attitude. “You don’t have to. They know.” He considered this. “Well, Kíli suspects. Fíli knows.”

Thorin lifted his head sharply. “Fíli said something to you?”

“Of course not. He wouldn’t. And he thinks he’s hiding it, but he’s not.” Dwalin snorted indelicately. “You both think you’re so secretive and mysterious, and neither of you is.” Thorin glared at him. Dwalin pushed off from the doorway and said, “You’ll come to dinner next week for Durin’s Day.”

“I have a lot of work to do-”

“It’ll wait. Family won’t.” He leaned forward. Thorin was a tall dwarf, and strong, joining Dwalin at the gym more days than not, and there weren’t many who could lean down and get in his face. “You’ll come to dinner.”

Thorin’s eyes were mutinous.

“I’ll carry you, if I have to.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“Push it, and you will.”

In the end, Dwalin didn’t have to carry Thorin to dinner, but it was a close thing; he did have to drop by and escort him down the hall to where his family waited, walk him through the door and block the exit for the first few awkward minutes.

It wasn’t a solution, and it was a little painful for everyone watching Fíli and Thorin stare silently across the table at each other while Kíli chattered in a desperate attempt to lighten the atmosphere, but it was a start.

\----

Dwalin was not a famous musician.

He made a living in the Erebor orchestra as their first chair cellist, his rote perfection a boon to the ensemble even if it sometimes broke his heart. On the side, he made some extra money providing background or developing simple harmonies on studio albums for Gloin’s company, generally brought along by Dis’s husband Vali who worked there full time. It wasn’t glamorous, and he’d never be well-known, but it was music and family and it made Dwalin happy in his quiet, grumpy way.

Kíli was the one who asked him to play for their new band.

“It’s brilliant, Dwalin, you’ll see,” he said as he tugged Dwalin along behind him. He’d picked Dwalin up from Erebor Records, a bright-eyed presence on the other side of the glass, asking intelligent and enthusiastic questions of the sound engineers. “Ori and Fíli have the music all written, and Mom’s agreed to do the singing for us on the sample, though Fíli still wants someone who sings like an elf. We’ve drums and violin and piano and lead guitar, and Dad’s going to play bass, but Fíli says it just won’t do without your cello filling it in. He says you’ll bridge the gap between the two styles of music and make it work.” 

“A harp might help as well,” Dwalin said, as subtle as a ton of bricks.

Kíli shot him a look. “Fíli says he’s working on that. I don’t know why he won’t let me handle it. Thorin’s always been a little softer on me than him, because I’m younger.” He muttered under his breath as he opened the door to the studio the boys were renting, “Which doesn’t make any sense, since I kissed him first, so they might as well all blame it on me.”

There were those who thought Fíli had all the brains in the family, but it wasn’t true. Both the lads were bright, and of course Kíli could see what was right in front of his nose; he was just more outgoing and determined to rectify the rift that still lay, only slightly bridged, between Thorin and his nephews. Fíli, like Thorin, was more likely to stubbornly leave it be.

“He came!” Kíli announced as he threw the door open. “I told you he would!”

Fíli looked quietly pleased, and Gimli blessed Dwalin with a, “’Course he did,” but it was the last person in the room who caught Dwalin’s eye, used as he was to dealing with his cousins.

There was a proper piano in the corner of the studio, with a keyboard wedged in beside it, and sitting at the bench was a young dwarf in a warm purple sweater and long grey skirt, his fingers resting lightly on the keys. 

_Ah,_ Dwalin thought, because of course. Of course Fíli’s friend Ori was _Ori Scribner._

Dwalin knew his work.

He was a prodigy, an actual one, who played as if the Valar themselves danced through his fingertips. Dwalin owned his albums, the ones he started releasing in his forties, renditions of songs mothers had sung to their children for generations. Ori’s was the kind of music that made the listener cry or laugh or sing. No one simply sat and listened to his records. 

The flash of jealousy was one of the most childish feelings he’d had in seventy years.

It irritated him, and he grumbled about how he didn’t have time for this, they could get someone else-

But then Ori smiled at him, a strange sort of brave-shy-friendly-awkward thing, and said, “It’s nice to meet you, I’ve heard a lot about you,” as if Dwalin wasn’t a huge, muscle-bound, tattooed grump of a dwarf. 

The first song Dwalin played for the Heirs of Durin was Fíli and Ori’s doctoral thesis, a soaring elven melody underlain with the growl of electric guitars and the pounding of drums. 

It was nothing he’d expected. It was _beautiful_ : strange, discordant, like a scowling warrior who played the psaltery with delicate touches, like a cousin who loved like an uncle, like a musician who longed to play something beautiful and maybe, finally, had.

“It reminds me of you,” Ori said with a teasing little grin as they listened to the recording at the studio, and Dis laughed and flicked Dwalin’s ear like the annoying little sister she wasn’t at Dwalin’s embarrassed grumble in reply.

“Very smooth,” she whispered when Ori started arguing the audio levels with Gimli, his shyness replaced by firm opinions and a steadily rising voice.

Dwalin glared at her. 

She grinned back.

\----

Dwalin was not a fool.

When Fíli chose Kíli to convince him to do the demo, he knew he was being purposefully manipulated by Kíli’s brown eyes and infectious enthusiasm.

When Fíli continuously asked for his input on the harmonies and strings of their proper songs, necessitating his coming in and meeting the friendly pair of Bagginses, he knew Fíli was taking advantage of Dwalin’s love of music, his sudden affection for the style Fíli’s band was producing.

When they began recording and Fíli had Gimli start making noises about _well I suppose I’ll just see if my elf can find someone who plays cello, though of course it won’t be the same_ , he knew the brats were playing to his pride.

When Fíli sent Ori, smiling and delicate and a little wild, to ask Dwalin to please join them on the tour, it just wouldn’t be the same without him, the music was _meant_ for him, he _understood_ it, Dwalin knew Fíli, that obnoxious little shit, suspected that Dwalin would have trouble saying no to that face. 

Dwalin was no fool, but he went anyway.

\-----

Dwalin was proud.

When he stepped on stage, dressed in the black leather Gloin’s publicity department put him in, glowering out at the crowd, touching his bow to the strings-

-when music flew through the air, like no one had heard before,Tauriel’s soaring soprano and Gimli’s snarling guitar-

-when Kíli’s passion and Fíli’s drive and Ori’s genius joined together-

\- and Dwalin’s precision, his perfection, formed the bridge among them-

He was proud.


	13. Adoration in Defiance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Adversity doesn't make me love less_

It started almost as a bet – one of those little one-up games that inevitably happen between friends or lovers or, yes, brothers. 

“We can’t, Fíli, someone will hear us!”

Little hisses of sound, muffled laughs. 

“Mmmm, I’d take your objection more seriously if your hand wasn’t in my pants.”

This was met with quickly stifled sound of indignation, but no removal of the hand in question.

And now it was this:

Kíli bent over a sofa, trying to muffle his moans as Fíli’s fingers moved inside him and Fíli’s hair swept over his shoulders and Fíli’s voice murmured, “Be quiet, baby, that’s it,” in hot breaths over his ear.

“Nnnnn-” his bottom lip in his teeth and his hands gripping at the cushions. He was usually loud and he knew it, growling and moaning and demanding what he wanted. But now-

“Thorin’s just in the next room,” Fíli murmured, twisting his fingers just so, never letting up the pressure on his prostate as Kíli’s hips moved against the rough-soft material. Kíli loved those hands. “Don’t want to wake him up.”

Kíli _knew_ Thorin was there, that’s what this was all about – their uncle who didn’t accept them while pretending he did, Kíli’s awkward attempts to smooth things over, Fíli’s calm flashes of defiance at the table, and then, as soon as they were alone, Fíli’s tongue in his mouth and hand at his waist and now _this_ , slick fingers and hot breath. “Fíli,” he gritted out, and maybe it sounded like a whimper but _fuck_.

Fíli’s tongue flickered across his ear, one cool bead caressing Kíli’s jaw. “You want more, baby? Think you can stay quiet?”

Kíli snarled at him. Fíli chuckled, low in his throat against Kíli’s back. “I’m not so sure,” his smug ass of a brother continued, “but we’ll see.”

The fingers disappeared and Kíli bit back a moan of protest, felt the brush of Fíli’s thighs against his legs, and then heard, “It might be best to cover your mouth.”

“ _Fíli_!” in a harsh whisper.

A kiss to his shoulder. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” A hand on his hip and then-

“Fu-” Kíli slapped a hand over his mouth a moment too late as Fíli – his gentle, careful Fíli – pushed into Kíli’s body with one forceful thrust of his hips.

Kíli froze a moment, shocked, but oh – thick and hot and full and that burn of not-quite-pain that would go away soon because Fíli had teased him open and slicked him up but-

Fíli started moving immediately. Long slide out, sudden push in, and Kíli couldn’t quite get purchase to push back as he heard the slap of skin on skin every time his brother’s hips hit the swell of his ass. 

Kíli muffled sharp moans into his palm, tried to swallow them down, but Fíli knew the angle-always knew it-and he dug his nails in a little as he took firm hold of Kíli’s waist. 

Harsh breaths and then, murmured, “Quiet, baby.”

Kíli growled and wiggled and pushed back. “ _I am being quiet!_ ” he hissed, because anyone who knew him for five minutes would know he couldn’t whisper. 

Harder now, slick, wet noises and panting breaths and he could feel every vein and the wide head and just-just striking again and again and it was-

Fíli pushed in deep and stopped, leaning forward, lining his chest along Kíli’s back. 

Then he _talked._

A low whisper, a steady murmur, every twitch of his lips making the braids by his mouth dance over Kíli’s skin. “You’re so beautiful, Kíli.” A roll of his hips, scraping across Kíli’s prostate and Kíli made a sound under his breath that was almost animalistic. “The muscles in your back. The way your hips move.” Again, and steady now, never giving him relief, and a hand sliding under him and wrapping around him, all slick with lubricant. “I wish I could see your face. See you fighting to hold it in. Your eyes wide, panting because you’re afraid to make noise. I can hear it.” Teeth nipped at his shoulder and Kíli desperately grabbed for the blanket on the sofa, fingers tangling in the soft material as he pressed it over his mouth. 

Fíli laughed.

Soft, under his breath, moving through his chest and – yes – his cock, deep in Kíli’s body, a gentle vibration.

“Shut up,” Kíli managed, and that only made Fíli laugh harder-

-and utterly _silently._

“I hate you,” muffled in cloth and lust and nails in his skin and the burn of Fíli inside him. 

“You love me.” Utterly smug. 

Kíli didn’t deny it, because it was true, because everyone thought Fíli was the protective, serious, thoughtful one, and he was, but Kíli knew this side of him too. Kíli knew Fíli was mischievous and sharp and a little bit vengeful, and teasing and hot and just _perfect_ sometimes.

Fíli’s hands slid over Kíli’s sides as he straightened, and then-

-pulled out.

“Don’t you _dare_!” Kíli yelped on something like a whisper (Thorin in the next room after that long, stiff dinner and now Fíli being an utter brat), but Fíli’s hands were on his hips, broad and strong, turning him over and lifting him up and down to the sofa proper as Fíli climbed after him. 

_Effortless_ , the way Fíli moved him, and Kíli arched his hips and hooked his leg over his brother’s shoulder and swallowed down a shout as Fíli pushed back into him while looking him in the eyes.

A sheen of sweat on Fíli’s neck, the smug twist of his lips, and he started moving, holding Kíli’s hips up and just _taking_ , wet and hot and deep and hard and the sofa was shifting with the force of his thrusts (Thorin would have to be deaf not to hear it). It almost-hurt it was so fast and Kíli’s hands scrambled across pillows and sofa cushions and Fíli’s stomach until he wrapped his hands around himself and started stroking in desperate, hard strokes in rhythm to the sound of skin on skin and ragged breaths and Fíli’s voice whispering _yes baby look at you so beautiful I want you to come now for me, don’t make a sound, quiet, quiet, I know you want to scream but you’re doing so well-_

Kíli’s whole body arched as he climaxed, hot and messy and silent, utterly silent, so he could hear the slick slide of his hand on his erection and the slap of skin as Fíli kept moving – and finally a moan (low with desperation and lust) from his brother as Kíli’s body twitched and tightened around him. He could feel – when he couldn’t hear, he could feel – the sudden burst of heat over his thigh when Fíli almost didn’t pull free in time, slick and hot and wonderful because Fíli’s eyes were wide and his lips parted and his cheeks flushed with something like shock as he watched himself come on Kíli’s skin. 

They panted.

Fíli reached out, rubbed a thumb over Kíli’s thigh, and his eyes were dark with lust and his touch possessive as he rubbed his seed into Kíli’s skin.

Kíli grinned. He felt it on his lips, in his cheeks, knew he looked as pleased with life as he felt.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Fíli whispered back, his own mouth curving into his smug little pleased smile, a flash of diamond in his dimples. 

“I was quiet.”

“You were.”

Kíli stretched his arms over his head. “ _You_ might have been louder.”

A snort. “I don’t think so.” Fíli’s eyes flickered down his Kíli’s chest to his belly and thighs. “You’re definitely messier too.”

Kíli looked down his own body (trim and covered in a proper pelt of brown curls), ran a thumb along his seed and Fíli’s on the sensitive skin on his inner thigh. “You should so something about that,” he said, infinitely lazy.

Fíli’s smiled spread, his eyes narrowed, and he leaned down.

When the soft sound of his sucking mouth on Kíli’s stomach trembled in the air between them, Kíli abruptly realized he was in for a long and very challenging night.

Ah, well. Even if Thorin didn’t hear them, he’d definitely know what they were up to when he saw Kíli trying to sit properly tomorrow morning. 

Know it and accept it. Or not. His uncomfortable silences didn’t make Kíli love Fíli any less. Tabloids didn’t make Kíli love Fíli less, or being beaten down and his hair sliced off. Every adversity they faced made him love Fíli more: made Fíli defiantly stroke his wrist at the table, made him push up into Kíli’s kisses in the marketplace, made Fíli take his hands with bruised and bleeding knuckles and say, over and over, that Kíli was more important than dreams or violins. 

And sometimes they just made Fíli pin him down and fuck him cross-eyed while whispering about love and adoration, and Kili loved that too.

Though . . . they had all night.

It would only be fair if Fíli had a bit of a hitch in his step too, really.


	14. Leather and Lyrics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They came as a pair_

Bilbo Baggins and Bofur, son of Kefur, came as a package deal.

It was Bilbo Fíli wanted to recruit, since neither he nor Ori had a gift for poetry. The Hobbit was known for writing lyrics across genres, from the Men’s pop music to Dwarf metal to the Hobbits’ bluegrass and folksongs, and he’d even written lyrics for the three children of Lord Elrond of Rivendell. He’d won awards in each of them, to the point that it was a bit of a joke in the music business that he would win at every awards show anyone dreamed up, and he had a different, brightly-colored vest for each one. His lyrics ran the gamut from romantic to nonsensical to heartbreaking to bizarre, and always, always perfectly matched the style of the band. 

Fíli wanted the best, and Bilbo Baggins was the best.

Unfortunately, he was also so in demand that the fledgling Heirs, consisting then of Fíli, Kíli, Ori, and Gimli, with assistance from Dwalin, were fairly certain they’d be immediately turned down, despite the fact that Thorin and the Erebor Orchestra had had some dealings with Bilbo’s agent years earlier (or perhaps because of it; Thorin and the Shadowfax Agency had not parted on particularly warm terms). They were determined, however and, under Fíli’s leadership, managed to put together a sample of their sound: growling guitar and beating drums, Fíli’s violin and Ori’s faultless piano, all overlaid with Dis’s rich voice singing notes without words and the sweet thrum of Dwalin’s cello and even a hint of Thorin’s harp, and sent it to Bilbo’s agent, a tall, elderly Man named Gandalf Mithrandir. 

They received a form letter in response, turning them down.

Wisdom, voiced by Gimli’s father Gloin and Thorin, dictated that they find someone else to write their lyrics, or perhaps even attempt composing themselves again. But Kíli and Gimli didn’t accept that. They insisted that the band try mailing Baggins directly. They swayed the others to their side over a dinner of pizza and strong dwarven ale. Only slightly hungover the next morning, Ori contacted his rather mysterious brother Nori and set him to work finding a personal address for their proposed lyricist.

Three weeks after receiving the refusal from Baggins’ agent, Fíli and the others (all crowded around the letter box, a strange mix of leather, denim, and sweater vest) dropped a padded envelope in the mail with their sample album inside. 

It was an audacious move that could, and perhaps should, have blown up in their faces.

But it didn’t.

Because while Bilbo would have bristled at the perceived invasion of privacy, it wasn’t the Hobbit who picked up the mail that day: it was his husband instead. Luckily for _Heirs of Durin_ , Bofur leaned more toward the dwarvish idea that outrageous risks should be rewarded than the hobbity one that manners reign supreme. So instead of tossing the CD in the trash, he carried it inside to their small, private studio and played it. 

The moment Bilbo came in, arms laden with groceries, Bofur dragged his hobbit in to listen as well. 

“I’ve never heard anything like this,” Bilbo said wonderingly.

“Exactly,” Bofur agreed with a grin.

“There’s,” Bilbo closed his eyes and listened, and his body moved a bit with the music, finding the tempo. “There’s an underlying beat of dwarf metal, but there’s influences of classical sounds from dwarf and elven background and . . .”

“And they need a lyricist to bring it all together.”

Bilbo glanced at him.

“Which is you,” Bofur added. Then he tilted his head, one pigtail sliding off his shoulder, “And they could use some woodwinds while they’re at it, if you ask me.” 

Bilbo raised his eyebrows. “You want to go to Erebor and visit a group of people who somehow hacked our personal address and sent us an unsolicited demo?”

Bofur grinned.

Bilbo shook his head, but he knew a restless dwarf in need of some excitement when he saw one. “All right then. But you’re booking the tickets.”

Which is how possibly the most famous lyricist in Arda and the former lead guitar for _Iron Hills_ came for a visit with a group of young Erebor dwarves practicing and recording in a little rented studio in Dale.

\-----

Bilbo had not always come as half of a pair; most of his life, Bilbo was often alone.

He was born in the Shire, as were all Hobbits. The Shire was viewed with a sort of reverent respect by the rest of Arda, closed off and private, treated more like a sacred nature reserve than a place where people lived. Hobbits lived a simple life, well behind the rest of the fast-moving world, their small community self-sustaining through farming and fishing in the old style. Their interactions with the outside world were limited primarily to the sale of beautiful handmade goods, and those usually facilitated by Men. A good number of Hobbits had radio and electric lights, but only a few went so far as having televisions, and then only decades after they were invented, when channels could be picked up via satellite. 

The world outside the Shire changed and grew in constant tumult, but the Shire continued in peace and quiet.

Bilbo’s parents were a bit . . . odd for hobbits. His mother, Belladonna, had attended school at Rivendell, the only elven community still open to the outside world. No one had left the Shire for so long in generations. When she came home, she brought with her tales of phones and radios, televisions and calculators, which were met with confused stares by her fellows. “Why should I call when I can walk over?” “What do we care what Men are up to?” “Simple enough to do figures on a piece of paper.” 

The only Hobbits who loved Belladonna’s stories were her grandfather, the Thain, who funded phone lines throughout the Shire so he could call his Buckland relatives, and quiet Bungo Baggins, several years her senior, who had gently encouraged her dreams to study with the elves, then patiently waited for her return to ask her to marry him. She’d been utterly shocked at the proposal, since she’d had no idea he was interested in her that way. More than that, he had spent the time she was away purchasing, gutting, and completely redesigning a beautiful smial on the assumption she would agree. But Belladonna loved surprises and a splash of daring, and they were married shortly after. 

And so Bilbo was raised in Bag End, his father’s gift to his mother. It was a house that received regular deliveries of interesting items from the world of Men, delivered by his mother’s old wandering professor, Gandalf, an odd Man of varied interests and indeterminate age. Bilbo was the only one of his friends to use a calculator, to own a heavy satellite phone, and to travel, with his mother, to visit Rivendell once as a boy. As a result, he’d always been a bit of an outsider, at odds with the more traditional of his age-mates. 

Then his parents died as a disease swept through Hobbiton, and Bilbo was truly alone.

It was when he learned that the disease was vaccinated in the cities of Men that Bilbo, with Gandalf’s help, set up a satellite computer and started communicating with the world outside the Shire. It was Gandalf, too, who put him in contact with various singers looking for lyrics, which Bilbo was already known for at the Green Dragon down in Hobbiton.

Over the next decade, Bilbo made friends, connections, and acquaintances with Men, Elves, and the occasional Dwarf, while Hobbits thought him odder and odder, and called him “Mad Baggins” behind his back and sometimes to his face. 

It was terribly lonely, being a world away from people he considered his friends, and surrounded by those who thought he was almost dangerously strange.

Which was why, when Gandalf showed up on the doorstep and invited him to come and meet a group of clients – Lord Elrond’s three children who were known for their traditionally styled elven ballads – in person, Bilbo grabbed a bag and followed.

He didn’t go back to the Shire for a very long time.

\------

Bofur, son of Kefur, was never alone.

As the son of miners, Bofur grew up poor in money but rich in family. He lived inside a mountain, as dwarves ought, surrounded by cousins, cousins, and more cousins, as well as his own fine baby brother. It was tight, and noisy, and dark, and absolutely perfect for an outgoing, cheeky young dwarf with an aversion to quiet.

He played and tumbled and trained, especially on the heels of his favorite cousin, Bifur, who amazingly had the patience to deal with him. By the time he was twenty, he had a little one on his own heels, his redheaded brother Bombur, and years of being largely put up with by Bifur made him do the same for Bombur. 

Many people learn music in schools, from teachers and professors in clean, colorful classrooms. Bofur learned his from dwarves covered in dust, grinning through the grime, on instruments handed down through generations and held together by love. He didn’t remember having a banjo in his hands for the first time, or playing his first tin whistle. His earliest specific memory of an instrument was his coming-of age gift because it was brand new-a sleek, mid-price clarinet with a lovely sound.

Bifur and Bombur were raised with instruments, too, woodwinds and guitars, drums and banjos. Bofur fell in love with wind instruments, borrowing and begging and even whittling until he could play flute, recorder, piccolo, clarinet, and could figure out just about anything else. Bombur like percussion, and owned several small drums. Even when Bifur started working in the mines nine hours a day, he would come home and play, clever fingers on the guitar, always best with stringed instruments.

Then, just a few weeks after Bofur started working in the mines, there was an accident. Bofur was fine, but Bifur . . . 

Bifur was not.

His hands, those long, clever fingers, were crushed. The head injury was bad as well, and they almost lost him, but a group of doctors of Men saved him. He wouldn’t be able to work, though, not in the mines, not with his hands, and what was a dwarf without a craft? 

Bifur fell into a depression that Bofur and Bombur couldn’t pull him out of. Not for several years, not until Bofur said, “You can’t mine, and you can’t play, but you can sing.”

Three days later, they were set up in an empty room, banging out a mishmash of music that made all the neighbors wince.

Twelve years later, _Iron Hills_ was one of the biggest metal bands in the world, Bofur growling on guitar, Bombur beating out rhythms, and Bifur’s voice an angry snarl of lost chances and broken hands.

\--------

Bilbo and Bofur met during the height of _Iron Hills’_ popularity, working on what the dwarves knew would be their final album. Bombur’s wife was about to have their third child, and he didn’t want to keep missing his children’s lives; Bifur’s vocal chords were getting nodules again; and Bofur philosophically agreed to retirement with an, “I suppose all that spare time could be interesting.” He wasn’t willing to let them go out with anything but a fantastic, knock-your-socks-off album, though, and that’s why he decided to hire Bilbo Baggins to write the lyrics.

“I’d like you to do about five songs for the album,” Bofur said, “so it’d be best if you’d come out and meet us all face-to-face.”

“I’ve never written for metal before,” had been Bilbo’s response, “and I’ve never travelled to the Blue Mountains.”

“Is that a no?” Bofur asked, disappointed but not surprised. 

“No, quite the opposite,” came the quick reply. “It’s a definite yes.”

\-----

From there it was a fairly standard transition from _I_ to _we._

By appearances, they were an odd pair. Bofur was a dwarf through and through, a bit course and a bit loud, with a preference for black leather and thick boots and occasional flannel and silver piercings. Bilbo, though considered outrageous among his own people, was a quintessential Hobbit to outsiders: neat, plump, and always immaculately dressed in bright weskits and clean white shirts, delicately embroidered.

And yet, from the beginning, they took a liking to each other. Exactly why wasn’t something they felt needed to be picked apart and studied. They worked together, they found each other mutually pleasing (a bit of a surprise for Bofur, but Bilbo had known he found dwarves attractive for years), and they had dinner (who asked whom out that first time was something of a topic of debate in later years). Their first date turned into a five-hour supper full of laughter and stories, which is always a good sign. The second date went much the same way, and then the third-

Well, in the third, Bilbo started babbling.

“-it’s just that I’m not interested in you, ah, _sexually_ , and please don’t take that personally – though of course you will, because _everyone_ does – because I’ve never been interested in anyone that way and if I was it would be you, I mean you’re – funny and talented and quite, ah, quite handsome, and-”

“You know,” Bofur said, and his eyes were shining, “I’m relieved that’s what you’ve been so nervous about. I’d half convinced myself you were going to ask me to shave my mustache.” 

Bilbo took a deep breath of air (having foolishly not taken any during his sudden rambling), then stopped. “What?”

Bofur scratched thoughtfully at the trim bit of beard at his chin. “Well, romance without sex is pretty normal among my people, or even craft-marriages or . . . whatnot.” He waved a hand. “Marriages come in all kinds among dwarves, when they happen at all. I know other races find it odd to be in love with someone you don’t get naked with but, well, not to insult your Hobbit sensibilities,” he leaned forward on one elbow, eyebrow twitching upward, “those other races are stupid.”

Bilbo burst out laughing, leaning forward and wiping his eyes when tears pricked at the corners. “I am a bit of an odd Hobbit,” he admitted, “leaving the Shire and going on adventures to meet singers and songwriters. Compared to that, not wanting to sleep with anyone is a pretty minor business.” 

_Though it didn’t feel like it_ , he told Bofur a year later, curled up on a sofa and eating Bofur’s excellent spicy popcorn, _when every story and every sex ed class and every expectation made me feel like a freak._

“Well,” Bofur said, and when he smiled his eyes narrowed and crinkled at the edges in a way that made Bilbo’s heart speed up, just a bit, “maybe you’d make a better dwarf than a hobbit.”

They were married at the end of the _Iron Hills Farewell Tour_ , surrounded by Bofur’s family, who quickly adopted the long-orphaned Bilbo as their very own. They all agreed to leave their leather and studs at home and wear a tux, just for the special occasion (though Bifur did wear a leather vest under his tuxedo jacket).

Bofur, of course, thought Bilbo utterly radiant in a clean white shirt and yellow weskit cheekily embroidered with black roses.

\-----

The sons of Dis picked up Bilbo personally at the airport, and though they were expecting his husband as well, having purchased the ticket at Biblo’s behest, they obviously hadn’t known who he was.

“Obviously” because the darker of the two transformed in one moment from a tall, loose-limbed, confident young dwarf to a stammering fanboy in approximately thirty seconds.

“You’re-you’re-” he stammered as his smaller brother shook Bilbo’s hand (quite an attractive fellow, Bilbo noted, _and_ he could play the violin; a deadly combination), “you’re _Bofur Kefurson._ ”

Bofur laughed, all warm and crinkling and reminding Bilbo why he fell in love with this particular dwarf (since he laughed quite often Bilbo got to be reminded several times a day). “We’re all dwarves here,” he said cheerfully. “No need for the names Men give us.” He bowed. “Bofur, son of Kefur, now registered on all those millions of government documents as Bofur Baggins. And you’d be. . .”

“No, no I mean – I mean Bofur of Iron Hills. You’re Bofur from _Iron Hills_!” Kíli’s cheeks, barely hidden under as scrappy a beard as Bilbo’d ever seen on an adult dwarf, were flushed. 

Bilbo didn’t often think dwarves were _adorable_ , but well. What could he say?

“He’s Kíli,” the blond said, looking immensely amused as he elbowed his brother aside to shake Bofur’s hand. “I’m Fíli, sons of Dis. We knew Mr. Baggins was bringing his husband, but we didn’t realize it was you.”

“Kíli!” Kíli suddenly burst out belatedly, grabbing Bofur’s hand and pumping it enthusiastically. “Thank you for coming!”

The look Fíli gave his brother was infinitely fond. “Kíli’s a dedicated fan of Iron Hills,” he said. “He’s never really recovered over your retirement.” Kíli shot him a wide-eyed look. “Kíli’s the one who loves metal, and blasted it so much when we were both still home that I started imagining it with an orchestra out of a sense of self-preservation. Your music actually has a lot of influence on our work.” He was much more poised and confident than his brother, his mouth curved into a smile with a touch of arrogance to it, his voice smooth. But Bilbo thought he sensed underlying nerves, a hint that Fíli was sincere but still putting on a show for their benefit.

_Good_ , Bilbo thought. _A dwarf who gets things done._

“Let’s pick up your bags. We can drop you at the hotel or go straight to the studio.” Fíli’s eyes flickered forward and away, his fingers twitching a bit at his sides. 

Bofur and Bilbo exchanged a knowing look. “The studio’ll do,” Bofur said. “I’d like to hear what you have in person.”

Kíli made a sort of gulping noise. “You want to come to the studio?!”

“Aye, if it’s not a problem. If it is, I suppose you could drop me off at the hotel first.” Bofur was wearing his favorite hat in deference to the bite of cold in the air, and Bilbo fancied even the earflaps looked a little pitiful and sad at the thought of being left behind. These kids wouldn’t stand a chance against Bofur’s face (and Kíli’s clear star-struck wonder).

“Not at all,” Fíli said, “though our manager would probably have kittens if you offer even one piece of advice without a contract.” He turned, walking backwards through the crowd for a moment, blue eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief.

Bofur grinned right back at him. “Well then, sounds like I’d better keep my mouth shut until you offer me that contract,” he said, with absolute assurance. 

Kíli made a sound a bit like a gasp and a squeak as Fíli said, “I’m looking forward to it, Mr. Baggins,” with a hint of swagger that made Bilbo roll his eyes.

The contracts were signed within two days.

In two weeks, Bilbo and Bofur were looking at houses to rent long-term in the city of Dale. “So you can have some sunlight,” Bofur said, pressing a kiss to one pointed ear, “and I can see the mountain.”

Six months later, they bought a house, still in Dale, with a large soundproof basement for Bofur and a sunny top story with a beautiful studio and office for Bilbo. Their bedroom was tucked in the floor in-between, close to the ground but with lovely windows. 

“You need to bake cookies,” Bofur said as they curled up in the big, plush bed in a room already slightly cluttered with whittling projects and scraps of lyric ideas, “so it’ll smell like home.”

Bilbo chuckled, listening to the deeper breaths in the broader chest and thinking of their band, of Fíli and Kíli, Gimli and Ori, of Legolas and Tauriel, Gloin, and Dori and Nori, of long nights and endless days and coffee runs and laughter and music, music, music. He breathed in the familiar scent of minty aftershave and the polish Bofur used to care for his clarinet, and remembered, for only a moment, those years after his parents died, being “Mad Baggins” and alone, always alone. “It already does,” he said, and nudged his cold nose into his husband’s neck just for the yelp of indignation he’d earn for his cheek.


	15. Vows in Lightning and Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fíli’s body was a dare: _Try to deny me who I am. Who we are. You will fail._
> 
> Kíli’s body was an affirmation: _This is mine; love and laughter and lust._

The studs in Fíli’s dimples were a tease.

He got them in those long, interminable years of his doctorate, when he and Kíli had each other but lived apart. They were almost a dare, something wild in the middle of the night when he was high on music and maybe a dash of wine. He’d marched into the tattoo parlor with a swagger and a grin, asked for the piercing expert, and walked out an hour later with a sore face. 

This was followed by two months of careful care and avoiding video chats, occasional swelling and a sudden fondness for soups, but it was all worth it, when Kíli came to visit him and his mouth fell open when Fíli smiled and opals sparkled in his cheeks.

Fíli intended to show Kíli around Gondor, but it could wait.

They had a week, after all.

\---

The symbols on their wrists were an oath.

Kíli designed them, because Fíli needed them: their wedding vows in ink and blood. They hurt, a constant buzzing pain, and Kíli was half-hard when it was all over, flushed and aroused and staring at the quiet possession in Fíli’s eyes as he watched the ink sink into their skin.

You belong to me.

I belong to you.

We are two halves of one whole.

They wore them like a flag, pure defiance, and Kíli loved the way Fíli looked at them, how his face would soften with something like awe.

Fíli liked to lift that wrist and press his lips to it, gently; liked to sink his teeth in just enough to make Kíli moan; liked to stroke his thumb along the stark black lines when they stood together, as they always did.

It suited them better than something as mundane as jewelry, anyway. 

\---

The music on Kíli’s back was a declaration in the shape of a storm.

They were at the lake, just the two of them, a lazy morning on the water followed by lunch over a fire, and plans for more boating in the afternoon, when the storm rolled over the mountain on clouds of deep blue and purple.

The rain slashed down immediately, a heavy pounding across their bare shoulders. “Leave it!” Fíli called to his brother. “We should get inside – the dishes can wait!” They were old hand-me-downs, and not worth the trouble of gathering up in this sort of deluge.

But Kíli didn’t move.

He stood for a long moment, his eyes wide, hair already slicking down to his cheeks and neck as he stared at Fíli. 

Then he kissed him.

A click of teeth and questing tongue, his hands cupping Fíli’s ass as he pressed against Fíli’s stomach – already half hard in his jeans. “No, let’s stay out,” he murmured, and the words tasted like rain. 

Fíli huffed a laugh. “The storm-”

Hands at his waist, clever fingers sliding the button through cloth and tugging at the zipper. “The lightning’s far away, we’re fine.” A grin. “Go ahead and count for the thunder.”

“Ki-” a shock of warm rain as Kíli pulled his cock free, his fingers wet, his shoulders glistening. 

“Lie down.”

Fíli blinked rain from his eyes. “What?”

“Lie down, Fíli.” A kiss, calloused hands sliding to his hips to push cloth down his thighs. “Please.”

Fíli could never deny Kíli when he said _please_ , much less when he looked like this, wet and aroused and _perfect_.

The grass felt slick beneath his back as Kíli pulled off what little they were wearing, and the sky was a dark palette of blues and grays and silvers as Kíli straddled his waist, knees tucked tight to his sides as Kíli leaned in and kissed him. Fíli moaned his brother’s name against Kíli’s lips, massaged the line of muscle along Kíli’s thighs to his hips.

“I want you inside me.”

Fíli’s eyes opened to Kíli leaning over him in a curtain of dark hair. “We don’t have any-”

Kíli laughed. “Of course we do,” he all but purred, twisting for his jeans, pulling out a small packet with a grin and ripping it open. Moments later, slick hands wrapped around Fíli, pumped once, twice. “I’m always prepared.”

He slid forward.

“You haven’t been-”

“It’s raining. And your fingers were in me this morning.” Kíli ran fingertips delicately over Fíli’s ribs. “You’re beautiful right now, and I want,” he rolled his hips, and Fíli bit back a moan as his cock slid along Kíli’s ass, “I want you in me. Out here.” He grinned, wild and feral beneath eyes blown black with lust. “Fuck me with the thunder, Fíli.”

Fíli almost told him no – should have told him no, with a storm brewing and the threat of electricity in the air – but Kíli was _stunning_ , and he just-

Kíli took him in slowly.

He arched back, rocked his hips, plane of muscle along his stomach, a trail of thick dark curls from neck to groin. Little pants fell from his lips, occasional words – _yes_ and _good_ and _Fíli_ and _oh_ – as he grabbed for Fíli’s hand and held on.

“Yes,” Kíli whispered, opening his eyes into the rising wind, the dancing rain, when Fíli was as deep as he could be. The word was whipped away, scattered among the drops that slashed at Fíli’s face and eyes. 

Kíli moved.

Slowly at first, a delicate roll of the hips, but soon faster, muscles flexing in his belly and his thighs, his free hand digging into the grass as he shifted his angle and found what he wanted. When he did, his pleasure came all on a shout, almost Fíli’s name and almost _fuck_ and almost _yes_ , but in the end just _there_!

Fíli’s hand stroked over his hips, nails digging in at the sensitive bones, as Kíli wrapped the other around his cock. Kíli tilted his head down, his lips shining and his eyes narrowed. “Get me off,” he ordered, and Fíli’s hand moved.

Kili set the pace he wanted, kept the angle he wanted, murmured _faster_ or _harder_ or _just like that_ , and over his shoulders lightning flashed through the clouds and thunder roared up from the ground, and Kíli leaned forward as his hips sped up. With the wind blocked by Kíli’s shoulders, there were Kíli’s eyes, dark and lustful as he shuddered with every clap of thunder. 

The storm was coming closer.

The thunder was his drums and Kíli rode it, a creature of selfish pleasure, nails scratching across his own nipples as he ground Fíli’s cock against his prostate and moaned louder, louder still, curses falling from his lips and _fuck me fuck me yes_ , until Fíli felt like he existed only for Kíli’s pleasure, the storm existed only for Kíli’s orgasm, this wild creature shoving himself on his brother’s body as his cock leaked over his brother’s hand. Kíli had never focused so much on himself at Fíli’s expense.

It was breathtaking.

Music in Fíli’s ears, wild drums pounding out thunder, a sensual violin like rain, Kíli’s low moans until he cried out, leaned back, grabbed Fíli’s thigh with one hand, slapped his hand away with the other to stroke himself hard and fast, and the fluctuating curve of his stomach was beautiful as he lost his rhythm and came in thick ropes across Fíli’s rain-drenched skin. 

Lightning crackled through the clouds, indigo and white flashing.

Kíli slowly tilted his head back down, hand sliding forward over the mess on Fíli’s stomach. He didn’t look sated, still looked wild, hair slicked to his cheeks, whipping around his neck. “Finish,” he growled, and it was an order. He stilled his hips after one last twist of his wrist, one last long shudder in time to the rumble under Fíli’s back. “You’re so hard, I can feel it. Finish.” He leaned forward, kissed Fíli, tucked in his elbows. “And don’t you dare pull out.”

Fíli didn’t. 

He grabbed Kíli’s waist, held him, slid his hands over his ass and thrust, thrust, staring mesmerized into the flashing amber in Kíli’s eyes until he shuddered and came inside his brother’s body, under his brother’s body, pinned by his brother’s eyes.

 

He gave Kíli the sheet music two days later.

He’d written it almost in a haze, Kíli curled in bed as the thunder raged. 

The drums were wild, more a suggestion of improvisation than anything else, unpredictable as thunder, flashes of lightning. The violin, however was structured and random at once, a pattering of rain, sudden flurries of wind.

And underneath it all, low notes like moans, like curses, like _fuck me_ and _I adore you._

They played it that afternoon, in the little studio at the back of the cabin, played it until they couldn’t keep their hands off each other, played it until mouths and hands and teeth had to mark the notes into skin.

When Kíli came home a year later with the notes inked forever on his back –stark black along his ribs, across his spine, wild splashes of washed color seemingly slung across them – he called it a love letter and led Fíli to bed, wrote his own answer with whispered words of adoration against Fíli’s fingers, his hips, his thighs, until his brother laughed with the joy of it.

\-----


	16. Teach Me How to Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Elves did not dream of the future._

Elves did not leave their forests.

They had, once, when Arda was a world made for their people. When they were almost revered, the chosen creations of Iluvatar. 

But that time was long behind them. Beauty and magic once thought immortal bowed under the inevitable march of time and technology. Legolas remembered a time, in his youth, when Elves still travelled freely among the forests, ancient and beautiful. Now, almost all the woods stood empty, the trees standing guard over the crumbling remains of the great Elven cities. 

Rivendell still stood, most open to the outside world, and the Lady Galadriel remained with a fair number of her people behind the elegant and jealously guarded walls of Lothlorien. The final Elven city remaining in Middle Earth was Legolas’ own: the Greenwood.

If Celeborn and Galadriel were careful of their borders, it was nothing in comparison to Thranduil. No living soul entered or left Thranduil’s domain, save a few guards he had keep an eye on the city and those who gave in to curiosity and slipped beyond the borders without permission. And that was precious few people indeed, as the trees would whisper to each other of the disrespect shown the royal family.

Unless the elf sneaking about _was_ the royal family. Then they let it slide.

Legolas liked Dale. He was an oddity, of course, but Elrond’s people came through sometimes, and there were the guards from the Greenwood, and frankly the Dwarves and Men who lived or worked there were generally too busy to pay him much mind. He could walk calmly through the bustle, taking in the noise and life, and gaze in something approaching wonder at the children (so many, Men had so many, and the Dwarves were having more now, too; he’d even seen a tiny pair of Dwarvish twins, unheard of in his lifetime). The entire design of Dale was fascinating, built as it was on two scales; every store and restaurant was designed to appeal to dwarves on one side, and Men the other. Nowhere else in Arda did two races coexist so successfully, though of course the vast majority of the Dwarves went home every night to their mountain.

The Greenwood was unchanging, but here, the city was different every time he wandered through it.

After a year of furtive escapes, Legolas did the most irresponsible thing he’d done in his life: he procured as small apartment in Dale, and popped in just enough furniture to make it seem like someone lived there. He even got a refrigerator, something unheard of in Thranduil’s largely electricity-free kingdom. Which, it occurred to him, needed food. He didn’t want to go hunting and haul back a deer, so he decided to brave one of the Men’s groceries, the enclosed, huge spaces that had replaced farmers’ markets sometime in the last hundred years.

It was here, tucked away in the produce section, that Legolas met Gimli.

\----

Elves did not talk to dwarves.

Legolas had found this an easy enough guideline to follow, even with the number of dwarves in Dale. They were small and noisy, rough and uncultured, less changed than the Men around them. He had known dwarves in his youth. They had not impressed him. He saw no reason to change his mind.

He was in an odd mood that day, however. He had his new apartment, a place of his own, a place to escape. He was feeling . . . buoyant, his steps light, his mood similar. If he hadn’t been so cheerful, he would never have given the Dwarf a second glance.

But he did that morning, despite himself.

There was something terribly out of place about a Dwarf standing surrounded by greenery. It appealed to some long-dormant sense of teasing in Legolas, something he should have gotten under control around a thousand years of age but, well.

The Dwarf looked so suspicious and grumpy.

He had to do it.

“Excuse me.”

The Dwarf looked up. Very typical of the race, Legolas thought that first day: small, square, thick red-brown hair just this side of bushy, his beard completely covering his chin and jaw and partially braided, though not very long yet; Legolas thought he must be young. His name badge said, in neat marker, GIMLI. “What?” he grunted, and Legolas almost grinned.

“I was wondering if you have any cabbage?” 

Gimli turned his head. The cabbage was piled artistically next to his elbow, where Legolas would have to be willfully ignoring it not to see it. “Yes.”

“Ah, so I see.” Legolas smiled gently. Dwarves hated the gentle smiles of elves. It always got their hackles up. “And how do I make sure that I’m buying a quality one?”

He fancied he could see this dwarf’s beard bristle. “You’re an Elf.”

“I am.”

“So you’d be in a better position to know than me.”

“Ah, but you’re a professional.” Legolas reached out and plucked up one of the cabbages. It felt wrong in his hand, sprayed with something to preserve it, to carry it past its time. 

“I work the registers and the meat counter,” the Dwarf grunted. “You want a specialist, wait until Tilda gets back. Far as I know, if it’s all about the same shade of green, it probably won’t kill you.”

“Probably?”

The dwarf squinted up at him and said, with utter dry humor and not so much as a flicker of a smile, “I’m sure if it does, the store will be happy to write a letter of apology to your family.”

Legolas almost laughed.

It had been a very long time indeed since he’d laughed, locked away in the Greenwood, seemingly living the same day over and over.

“Well,” he said, just as seriously, “that’s kind of them. Should I register my emergency contact information somewhere, just in case?”

“Not that many elves come through here, and even less blond ones. I’m sure we’ll figure it out.” Gimli reached out and took the cabbage from Legolas’ hand, replacing it with another, slightly fluffier one. “Will that be all then?”

Legolas smiled and gave a mocking little bow that made the Dwarf harrumph in an irritated and terribly amusing way. “For today, good sir dwarf. But I will be by again, and I shall make use of your true expertise next time.”

“Looking forward to it,” Gimli answered between clenched teeth, and Legolas headed for the register on feet light with a rare sense of freedom and amusement.

When he got home with nothing to put in his new refrigerator but a cabbage, he did rather question his sudden burst of irresponsible youth.

At least it gave him an excuse to return to the grocer’s a few days later, armed with a proper list and on the look-out for the grumpy young dwarf who amused him so.

If the roll of the Dwarf’s eyes as he scanned Legolas’ purchases were anything to go by, Gimli remembered him very well indeed. And continued to, when Legolas would escape the Wood to his own hidden apartment, and always think of this or that Men’s treat he’d like to try.

\-----

Elves did not concern themselves with the cultures of Men, such as they were. 

They concerned themselves even less with the culture of Dwarves.

Legolas knew something of both cultures, of course, as he had once travelled the paths to Lothlorien, Rivendell, and the now abandoned Dol Amroth. He’d mixed with Men, then, learned some of their music and some of their stories. But that had been 300 years earlier, and their world was almost unrecognizable now. Everything had changed: buildings, communication, transportation, even music. Traditional ballads had been replaced by a mishmash of musical styles that sometimes hurt his ears and other times utterly intrigued him.

Like all elves, and certainly elf princes, Legolas knew the basics of several traditional elven instruments. He was especially gifted at the lyre and dulcimer. But his time in Dale – which grew monthly, to the point that of course his father noted his absences (Legolas knew of this because Tauriel told him she’d been quizzed on the prince’s whereabouts, though she’d claimed utter ignorance), and he knew logically he would not get away with it for much longer – had introduced him to new styles of music, which came with new types of instruments. Guitars, it seemed, were especially important among Men’s music, and looked similar enough to a mandolin that he thought he could perhaps figure one out.

At least, he could if there weren’t so _many_ of them.

One entire wall of the shop was guitars of all colors, sizes, and makes, and it was, he found, a little overwhelming. Some appeared to plug in to something to work. Most had six strings, while other had four or five – a quick run of his fingers over them showed that the ones with fewer strings played deeper notes. “Ah,” he murmured to himself, “bass notes.”

“Aye,” came a rough and familiar voice at his elbow. “That’d be why it’s called a bass guitar.”

Legolas looked down and there, looking as grumpy and unwelcoming as ever, was his dwarf from the grocers. He’d now run into Gimli six times including the first, usually at the register, where Gimli was fast and polite enough that customers who knew the store well would head for his line. That he had to stand on a box to run the register was one piece of amusement Legolas had chosen not to make light off in their scattered conversations over the moving belt (though he’d been sorely tempted, indeed).

“Gimli,” he said, surprised.

“Elf,” Gimli responded. 

For a moment they stood awkwardly side-by-side, close enough to reach out and touch, if Legolas wanted to (which absolutely he did not), the thick leather jacket Gimli wore. He looked odd in proper dwarf layers rather than the long-sleeved green polo he wore at work: jeans and heavy boots, a thick warm sweater and long leather coat as if were December instead of only October. His arms were crossed, pulling up one embroidered sleeve enough for Legolas to see the hints of geometric ink on the thick forearms.

“Are you looking to buy a guitar, then?” Gimli finally asked, Legolas assumed because he was so used to asking Legolas if he’d found everything he needed.

Legolas lifted his gaze back to the overwhelming wall. “I was considering it, but I’ve never played one. They’re a Man’s instrument.”

Gimli snorted. “And a Dwarf’s. But yes, you’d want to Man’s size.” He shifted on his feet before asking, “You play anything?”

“Mandolin, harp, lyre, dulcimer, drum,” Legolas answered easily.

“Mandolin’d be a good bit different but maybe close enough. Are ye lookin’ for acoustic, classical? Electric? Bass?”

“I thought you were an expert on meats and check-outs, not guitars.”

Gimli sent him a decidedly nasty look before stepping forward and plucking up one of the six-string, plugged in guitars – electric, Legolas assumed. It was off to the side, a smaller selection, clearly designed with dwarves in mind. The dwarf swung it into his arms with the ease of long familiarity and danced his thick fingers delicately over the strings. A few adjustments at the head, and he looked up at Legolas with all the confidence of an elf five times his age. “Watch and learn, Elf,” he challenged, and started to play.

The sound was-

Raw.

His fingers danced over the strings as gracefully as any elf, but the music rumbled and growled, melodious but somehow fierce as well. 

Legolas recognized the style – Dwarf Metal, popular in Dale – but it was different here, live, the small amp vibrating, this dwarf who amused him so transforming in moments from a grumbling grocer to a musician, drawing defiance and power from the trembling strings. 

It was _alive_.

Elven music was sedate, unchanging, gentle. It was created for contemplation, for joy, for dreams of far off places and lost family.

This music was loud and harsh and insolent. You would not sit still, gazing into the night sky, while listening to this music. You would jump up, move, try to match the rhythm with your head or your body or the beating of your heart.

A handful of customers clapped enthusiastically when Gimli finished, and he looked up at Legolas and _grinned_ , a little open-mouthed thing, a flash of teeth.

“I see what you mean,” Legolas said, a little breathlessly, and he was never out of breath, even when he crossed leagues of snow on feet like wings.

He went home with a bass guitar.

He certainly didn’t choose it because it would work best in concert with Gimli’s.

He had no intention of seeing Gimli again, outside the grocers of course.

\------

Elves did not become friends with mortal beings. 

It was too painful.

And yet…

…When Gimli asked him, over his careful carving of a fresh steak, how his playing was coming along-

-Legolas admitted it wasn’t developing quite as he would like.

And when Gimli glared at him and offered to “show him at least the basics so ye don’t embarrass yourself at some elven party”-

-Legolas said yes.

The first guest he had at his small apartment was a grumpy dwarf with no patience whatsoever, armed with a guitar and a great deal of attitude.

\----

Elves did not defy their kings.

Especially if that king was their father.

And yet, months passed, and Legolas began to spend far too much time in Dale, despite his father’s wishes for seclusion.

Gimli told Legolas about his band. He spoke of it with such enthusiasm that he drew Legolas in; played a few demos, told stories of his cousins that made Legolas laugh so hard there were tears in his eyes. He listened to Legolas’ tales of the past and asked intelligent questions. He made faces over Legolas’ dulcimer, but agreed to learn it in return for laughing at the elf’s first attempts at the bass guitar.

That Legolas quickly left him in the dust made him more than a little smug.

Of course, Gimli took this as a challenge, and soon they were challenging each other to freestyle matches, Legolas on bass, Gimli on lead, trying to outpace each other while keeping harmony and melody intact. 

Gimli worked at a grocer, but his life was wrapped up in music and family, and Legolas found it fascinating.

Legolas found _Gimli_ fascinating.

So strange, to be with someone so wild, so open, so unapologetically alive. 

And he suspected, as their griping turned to friendship, that Gimli felt the same.

It all came to a head at once.

He received a message from his father that they must speak immediately.

In a fit of utter disrespect and cowardice, Legolas ignored it and fled to his apartment in Dale.

Within hours, Gimli appeared at his door, unannounced, his dark eyes shining and his lips parted in that wild grin of his, and announced, “Fíli wants an elf. And I told him I had one.”

Legolas arched an eyebrow at him, an expression that never failed to make his friend huff with annoyance. “I wasn’t aware you owned any elves.”

Gimli waved a hand dismissively, but his voice was teasing. “Of course I do, and you well know it, Elf.”

Something shot down Legolas’ spine and spread warmth through his chest.

 _Oh_ , he thought, startled.

And then:

_No._

Because there was nothing worse for an elf to do than fall in love with a mortal.

It meant loneliness. Sadness. Fading. It meant-

Gimli grinned up at him, hands on his hips, looking utterly satisfied with himself. “You know Fíli’s been harping about needing an elf in the band, to get the proper sound. Well now he’s got both Bilbo and Bofur in on it, and I’d had about enough of their yapping, so I said, ‘I have one,’ and now here I am to fetch you. Grab your guitar. We need a bassist.”

“You seem to think I am at your beck and call, Dwarf,” Legolas shot back, just barely managing to keep himself from grabbing his guitar immediately. 

“No, you’re just nosy and been wanting to meet them for a while.” He glanced pointedly at the bass. “Shall I carry it for you? Is it too heavy for your delicate elven constitution?”

“Absolutely not!” Legolas shot back, because his world was rearranging on its axis but somehow it wasn’t terrifying. Somehow it made sense. “You’d drag it along on the ground the whole way unless we had a wheelbarrow!”

Gimli bared his teeth and Legolas laughed and they walked out together into a strange, unexpected future.

\----

When his father ordered him to stop sneaking off in the night, Legolas agreed, in his way.

He moved into Dale openly, in the day.

Gimli caught him at it, appearing on his doorstep as he unloaded the last of his small collection of belongings. _Things_ didn’t have the meaning to elves that they did to Dwarves, Men, and Hobbits. They tied their memories up in the stars, in stories, in music.

His Dwarf didn’t ask questions. He didn’t need to. He seemed to understand without needing clarification. They worked silently, placing Legolas’ things around the small space: small hair ornaments over a thousand years old from his mother, grooming supplies, his instruments, his bow.

Gimli’s fingers rested for a long moment on the weapon.

“My father will be none too pleased either,” he finally said, without looking up.

“What about?” Legolas asked.

Gimli looked up, and he was always so bold, this Dwarf who inadvertently held Legolas’ heart. “You know already,” he said evenly, but there was nervousness in his fidgeting fingers along the curve.

And Legolas did.

Their first kiss was terribly awkward, and Gimli scowled all the way up to it, because Legolas finally gave in and settled on his knees in front of the smaller male. 

Gimli’s beard was soft and scratchy at once, and neither quite knew what to do with their hands (Gimli’s could almost circle Legolas’ waist, while the elf’s rested awkwardly on the strong hips), and Gimli mumbled something about naked chins that Legolas should probably take as an insult-

But it didn’t matter.

It worked.

For them, it worked.

\-----

Elves didn’t dream of the future.

Elves dreamed only of the Gray Havens, of waiting for the day they wished to cross the sea.

But Dwarves dreamed.

Dwarves dreamed and strove and _lived._

When Legolas gave his heart to a Gimli, when Gimli offered his in return, Legolas found himself swept up in a family that was as unstoppable and rebellious as his Dwarf. Fíli and Kíli (so in love, so defiant), Ori (so enthusiastic for the future), Bilbo and Bofur (almost as strange a fit as Legolas and Gimli, though with a great deal less grumbling about “just inconveniently tall, Elf, I should cut you off at the knees”), even watchful Dwalin (protective and loving and terribly suspicious of the Elf – then, at Legolas’ suggestion, Elves - in their midst), they all welcomed him. He had expected suspicion and trouble, he'd thought he'd be kept at arm’s length and tolerated only because they needed him, and he was Gimli’s friend.

But he was wrong.

They welcomed him, this odd band of misfits.

They made him a part of _Heirs of Durin._

They taught him how to dream.


	17. And Then I Fell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Dis, Fili, Bofur, Gimli_

**\------Dis------**

Dis fell in love with blond hair flickering in her face and Vali’s low laugh under her hands.

They met, as it was, at university, in the select choir. Dis was a first soprano, operatically trained (trying to calm her voice down for a proper choir after decades of private training and singing solos in front of an entire orchestra), and Vali was one of the instrumentalists brought in a couple of weeks before the proper concert season to prepare as an accompanist.

The first thing he ever said to her was, “Your voice is beautiful,” which would have been the fastest way to her heart, was she not so protective of it. But a lifetime of rigid routine, of hiding away from the press, of friends who were not friends, had made her wary of anyone who wasn’t family. So she only offered a small, almost professional smile and went on her way.

Dwarves didn’t live on campus – Erebor University was within the mountain, as were all things, and building dorms for students would have taken up far too much of the increasingly rare space. Everyone went home to their families. For Dis, this meant going home to what had once been the royal apartments, the sprawling rooms her family still owned even after their downfall. There, she saw her mother and remaining brother, and all of them tried their best to ignore the ever-present wound that was their home without her kind and beloved Frerin’s voice filling the halls.

Home was quiet and calm and careful routine. Private lessons, family dinners, her mother’s gentleness, her brother’s drive, visiting cousins and curling up with homework from university classes.

University was . . . loud. Colorful. Tucked in the side of the mountain to make the best use of natural light, it was one step away from being in Dale itself. Everyone traveled in packs from place to place, save one:

Dis, the “Lady,” whose face had appeared on every major newspaper and magazine in the mountain and even in other Dwarf kingdoms, from the very day she was born.

Dis was too well educated, too well-trained, and too unfamiliar with the workings of life outside the elite, wealthy families of Erebor to know how to cross the invisible bridge that separated her from her classmates.

A bridge that Vali, son of Varan, didn’t seem to see.

“Hello,” he said cheerfully when he saw her at rehearsal, and she would always bow politely back but never said a word more – too shy and too awkward and too afraid to let that show.

Until finally, seemingly out of the blue, the handsome young dwarf with the guitar said, “Would you like to go get some coffee?” and before she could think it through and stop herself, Dis blurted, “Yes!”

She imagined later she’d sounded an utter fool, but he didn’t mind.

Vali was six years her junior, the son of a primary school teacher and another who worked with young dwarves in their thirties. They were very concerned with the importance of education, and insisted he earn a degree even though he was more interested in playing guitar. “I’m going to make a living from it,” he assured her, “I’m just not entirely sure how yet.”

Dis thought of her cousin Gloin, and his fledgling record label. But she didn’t say anything.

 _People will use you,_ Thorin had told her gently, and several had proven him right over the years.

Vali was friendly and outgoing, gregarious and kind. He patiently worked until they found topics in common: music, movies, books. He invited her to book signings, brought her records, took her to her very first public viewing of a motion picture and split a giant bucket of popcorn that left her fingers buttery and her stomach a bit queasy, but her cheeks rosy and a little skip in her step.

Vali was the first dwarf she had ever known who made her feel . . . normal.

Her first friend who wasn’t a cousin.

And he wasn’t jealous. He introduced her to other friends, to dwarves with similar interests. And always, always, he would say, “This is my friend, Dis,” and jolly his way through the resultant stares until everyone was more or less forced to relax in her presence. He found groups that shared interests they didn’t – her love of dwarven opera simply didn’t compute with him, though when she joined the small amateur troupe at the school, he appeared at every concert, always bearing roses.

It was the most fun she’d had in her life.

But the day it changed – the day _she_ changed – was a cloudy day in Dale, wandering the stalls during the spring festival. It was a sparse crowd that year, because the air was heavy with the threat of rain. They’d planned to come out with several friends, but in the end it was only Vali and Dis, winding their way among the tents and games.

The rain came suddenly, but soft, gentle on the wind as the sun peeked from the clouds.

They laughed and ran to the field that served as an impromptu parking lot, and she was already trying to convince him to let her take him back in her car rather than taking his motorbike, but when they got there, she was completely parked in by a pair of large delivery trucks.

“Mahal’s balls!” she spat, and Vali grinned at her. 

“Come on!” he yelled. The rain was coming harder now, and she’d be soaked in moments. “I’ll drive you!”

She balked at first. What would her mother say? What would _Thorin_ say? The Lady Dis, clinging to a motorbike driven by a dwarf barely more than a boy?!

But he was smiling, and she said, “…If I die, I’ll haunt you in the halls for the rest of time.”

His wink was rakish and teasing as he said, “That’s just incentive, Dis!”

He prattled off some rules and climbed on, urging her to get behind him, to wrap her arms around his waist.

Her heart pounded with nerves, but she did it, tightening her thighs against the suddenly rumbling machine as he called, “I’m about to go! Hold on!”

And then they flew.

The road curved ahead and the wind blew, and rain pelted her hair and slicked it to her ears, and her body sang with the thrum of the engine and-

Suddenly-

The warm back against her breasts, the flexing muscles under her clenched hands.

“Don’t go home!” she yelled, because this couldn’t end so suddenly, before she truly understood what was happening in her chest. “Just drive!”

He didn’t ask if she was sure. He didn’t question her. He only laughed and took the wrong turn, roaring off in the direction of the lake and not to the mountain at all.

Dis fell in love in the rain and the storm, blond hair whipping in her eyes and the sound of laughter making her chest warm and her fingers tremble with excitement for a life she’d never imagined possible.

**\------Fili------**

Fíli fell in love over a lifetime, and then all at once.

He fell in love when Vali held out a tiny bundle and said, “Careful, Fíli, you’re a big brother now,” as he rested it in an astonished toddler’s lap.

He fell in love when Kíli toddled toward him, arms out, crying, “Feewee, Feewee!” only to fall flat on his face, blink, and start all over again.

He fell in love when Kíli sneaked from his cot into Fíli’s bed, demanding stories and cuddles and lessons and songs, whatever he was in the mood for that night. He fell deeper when Kíli insisted on returning the favor, weaving fantastic tales of utter nonsense in his little-boy voice.

He fell in love when they were in their twenties, and Kíli was an obnoxious brat he fought with as much as he played with, but when Kíli was bullied, Fíli ran to his rescue – the only person who got to mess with his baby brother was him. He had his pride. When Kíli threw his arms around him and got tears and snot on his shoulder, Fíli rubbed his back and promised to be as nice as possible for at least a week.

He fell in love when Kíli climbed too far and ran too fast and laughed.

He fell in love when Kíli’s hair tangled around his ears and flickered across his eyes.

He fell in love when Kíli burst in on him with his tutors, grabbed his hand and merrily dragged him away, “You’ve been in here for hours! If you don’t take a break you’ll turn into a rock!”

He fell in love watching Kíli learn to fight, his sudden intense concentration, his utter quiet and focus as he sighted along the bow. And then the abrupt transformation when it struck the target, a wide smile, a fist in the air, scanning the crowd to throw Fíli a smug grin because Fíli was no hand at archery.

He fell in love when he got his revenge by wiping the floor with Kíli in hand to hand, even as Kíli grew and refused to stop growing.

He fell in love so slowly that when he realized it, when it happened, it wasn’t like falling at all. More like drifting into something that made perfect sense.

It wasn’t very long after Kíli’s sixty-second birthday. Fíli came home to the wild sound of drums crashing and a guitar roaring through their apartments – his parents were out, or Kíli would never have gotten away with so much noise. The sound dug at his spine a bit – a far cry from the classic orchestrations he was used to and usually preferred – and he followed it to the source with every intention of shutting it down before the neighbors got involved (again). The music room was soundproof, but not that soundproof.

“What do you think you two are-”

Fíli froze.

He froze, and he fell. Irrevocably.

They were playing. Wild, crashing, nonsense music, Gimli’s fingers dancing and Kíli’s entire body moving. It was clearly a contest, one Fíli had been part of before, creating harmony and melody, battling for control, faster and faster-

Gimli let out a groan of frustration and gave up.

Kíli laughed.

He threw back his head (hair slick against his skin with sweat, eyes shining, the muscles in his arms bunching and releasing rhythmically) and laughed, free and victorious, and his drumsticks were blurs as they danced over the set in a rhythm just this side of uncontrolled.

Fíli’s breath caught.

Warmth flew from his stomach and pooled in his groin, and his heartbeat thudded counter rhythms in his ears as Kíli twisted and laughed and finally banged the cymbals with a mighty crash that shimmered in the air.

It was the most beautiful, arousing thing Fíli had ever seen in his life.

He would wonder later why he didn’t flee, horrified with himself. He was the responsible one, the calm one, the one who led with his mind and not his heart. He should have torn himself away and found some way to _deal_ this these feelings.

But he didn’t.

He never would.

Fíli threw his arms out and let himself fall.

There was never any other choice.

And he never regretted it, not for all of his days.

**\------Bofur------**

Bofur knew he was in love with Bilbo the day he saw the Hobbit in a full fussy fit and thought it was adorable. 

Hobbits were funny-looking little things, with their round faces and bare cheeks and big feet. He’d never actually seen one in person until the day Bilbo Baggins walked into his little office at Blue Mountain Records, fuzzy-footed and wearing a bright green waistcoat that practically damaged Bofur’s cave-raised eyes. He’d been earnest and polite, but also determined – he learned within two days that arguing with Bilbo Baggins about his lyrics would get you exactly nowhere.

Stubbornness was a trait Dwarves understood very well indeed.

Dating Bilbo was fun, because he was bright and friendly and grumpy and sassy all at once, in addition to being a brilliant lyricist. But dating wasn’t the same as falling in love, not at all. Falling in love was-

Walking into Bilbo’s hotel suite to find him pacing the kitchenette, hands flying through the air, talking to himself. The phone was askew, which meant he’d slammed it down in a fit of pique.

Again.

“Try to tell _me_!” Bilbo fussed to the air, his cheeks flushed and his delicate little nose twitching, “I should sign over the family home because I don’t _use_ it enough! Well! Let me tell _you_ ,” he all but screeched to a halt, jamming his index finger in the general direction of the refrigerator, “Mrs. Lobelia ‘Stick Up Her Butt’ Sack-of-Mud Not Properly a Baggins! You’ll get Bag End over my cold, dead body AND a faked will, because I’ll leave it to Bifur’s _dog_ before I’ll leave it to you!”

He huffed.

“And don’t,” he grumbled under his breath, “you think I don’t know you purloined three silver spoons _and_ a serving fork!”

Now, any Dwarf in his right mind would have turned on the heel of his boot and marched out of the room, leaving the Hobbit to his imaginary revenge (denied the real deal by a sense of Hobbity propriety).

But Bofur didn’t.

Bofur leaned against the doorjamb and thought:

_Mahal, he’s cute._

Immediately followed by an entire colony of bats taking wing in his stomach and:

_Ohhhh I see. Well then._

This was new, but he was flexible. Extremely flexible, for a Dwarf.

“Bilbo.”

Bilbo jumped about three feet in the air and twirled, glaring metaphorical daggers right into Bofur’s eyes. “Don’t sneak up on people!” he snapped.

Bofur stepped forward, somewhat cautiously, but determined. “You said dwarves stomp around like oliphants and couldn’t sneak up on a brick.”

Bilbo crossed his arms and glared.

“Also, you told me on the phone to just come in when I got here.”

Bilbo’s eyes narrowed. He hated being contradicted logically. 

Bofur came to a stop right in front of him. “Can I hug you?”

Bilbo blinked. “What?”

“Can I hug you? Is it safe?” Bofur grinned. “You won’t stab me in the back if I try, will you?”

“Well, of course I won’t, and why are you even _asking_ , we’ve hugged before, _dwarves_ \--!”

Bofur wrapped his arms around Bilbo. “I’m sure,” he said soothingly, “Bifur’s service dog would use your money wisely. He’s extremely well-trained.”

Bilbo made a small snorting noise.

It was not the first time Bofur had noted that Bilbo was perfectly sized for him – his curls tickling Bofur’s chin, his soft waist just right for Bofur’s arms. But it was the first time he’d done so with this secret knowledge in his head that he had somehow fallen terribly in love with this Hobbit. 

Bilbo huffed and fussed and then cuddled in, hands tangling in Bofur’s coat. “I hate my cousins.”

“Mmhmm.” Bofur had heard at length about the Sackville-Bagginses, once with much more colorful language than he’d ever heard before from his proper Hobbit (though that had been after a heavy dose of dwarven ale). 

A low sigh, sadder and less angry. “Just as well, since they all hate me. Mad Baggins that I am.”

“Their loss then,” Bofur said, more than a little fiercely, because a dwarf in love is ever-protective of their loved one’s heart, “as you’re easy to love, and lovely and fierce and brilliant.”

Bilbo laughed a little against his neck. “Are you planning to start a fan club?”

“Maybe.” Bofur tilted his chin, pressed a secret kiss among the curls. He was never one for keeping secrets. “Since I do love ya, after all.”

Bilbo went still in his arms.

Bofur didn’t panic. He wasn’t the panicking sort. He did, perhaps, suddenly hear his pulse pounding like a bass drum in his ears, but that was all. 

Bilbo shook.

 _Now_ Bofur panicked, because he’d certainly not meant to make Bilbo _cry_. He frankly couldn’t imagine Bilbo crying. The thought was terrifying. “What…did I…now don’t go and-” 

But Bilbo lifted his face, and he was smiling, all soft cheeks and bright eyes, and he said, “It’s just no one’s said that to me in a long time.”

“Well,” Bofur grinned back, figuring he probably looked pretty foolish, but that was all right; those in love generally did, “it’s only the truth.”

Bilbo beamed and Bofur grinned, and being in love was a very nice feeling, indeed.

**\------Gimli------**

Gimli knew he’d fallen in love with his elf the first time he saw Legolas bare, sprawled out on a luxurious motel bed, and thought he was beautiful.

Everything about Legolas was _wrong_. The pale, smooth skin, the long, narrow limbs (though so much stronger than they looked), the sleek line of muscle (no bulk, nothing to grab), even the rosy flush that began at his delicate ears and spread across the sharp cheeks and slightly squared jaw. Legolas Greenleaf was everything Gimli had been raised to think of as _unattractive._

And yet—

Gimli reached out as if under compulsion, rested his dark, square hands on the narrow hips, and wished he had poetry more suited to his feelings. But he was no lyricist, no weaver of verses; he had only scattered words: _beautiful_ and _strong_ and _mine_.

He wondered, for the first time, what his handsome, square body in its pelt of reddish fur must look like to sharp elven eyes.

His elf’s lips parted in a little smile, perfect white teeth, and he lifted his slender hips with more strength than it seemed he should have. “I can’t quite reach you there, dwarf,” he said, and a new softness underlay his voice. 

Gimli grunted. “Only because you’re ridiculously _long_.” He moved though, because yes, he’d thought about this a great deal in the last week, until he was straddling the trim thighs. “It’s highly inconvenient.”

Legolas licked his lips and shifted against the pile of pillows. His hair (too pale, too straight, too silken) lay around him like a miniature sun. “You don’t say that when you can’t reach high shelves,” he teased, but his eyes flickered lower, to where their erections lay so close together but not quite touching.  
Gimli let out a derisive snort over the beating of his heart in his ears, and then he shifted forward, and then-

Legolas was different here as well, long, slender, and pale where Gimli was short, thick and dark, his balls only lightly coated in golden curls that tickled Gimli’s square thighs. So many ways they didn’t match, so many ways they didn’t fit, but then his elf moved his hips, a gentle rocking, and _ah_.

Long fingers tangled in the hair by his ears. “Gimli,” Legolas murmured, his voice smooth with lust instead of rough with it, as Gimli knew his would be, “you are more strong and beautiful than I imagined.”

One beat, two, and then Gimli growled and Legolas laughed (ringing and so elven, all stars and no earth) as Gimli tugged him up to sit. He still had to tilt his head back, even sitting in the elf’s lap, deep, urgent kisses, smooth skin and rough beard, his hands in the elf’s silken hair as Legolas tugged at his own thick mass. 

Gimli’s body moved on its own, erection sliding and catching. Later he would get his hands on that slender cock, slide back the strange foreskin, and show his elf just what a dwarf’s clever fingers could do (had his share of experience with his own, after all, especially in these last few months) – but now he just _moved_ , smooth thrusts and little pushes and that low, lovely voice vibrating against his tongue in helpless little moans. 

Legolas’ hands (too smooth, no calluses despite years as an archer, despite the unforgiving steel of guitar strings) slid down his back, curved around his ass and pushed. Gimli growled and bit Legolas’ lip. “Watch it,” he grunted, swallowed the light laugh as it fell into a low, musical groan. 

“Oh I am watching,” his elf assured him with a slow, sly smirk. “And well, you weren’t moving a great deal, and my understanding is that it’s fairly necessary-”

The sharp movement of Gimli’s hips, thick thighs and shifting muscle, shut his elf up easily enough, but it also sent a sharp flash of pleasure up Gimli’s spine and a groan from his lips.

They moved together as if they were made to do so, Gimli’s hard compact strength, Legolas’ smooth grace, panting breaths and moans, murmurs of names – low and gruff from Gimli’s mouth, sweet and musical on Legolas’ tongue – and it was enough, it was more than enough, friction and heat and just knowing his elf was here, long beautiful lines and-

“Oh,” Legolas breathed, his pretty eyes wide with surprise as he squirmed and spilled. The flush across his cheeks made Gimli jerk and then-

Heat and pleasure, stuttering hips, his elf’s eyes dark, his elf’s hands on his hips, urging him on, and that lovely voice, “Yes, yes, yes,” and then pattering off into musical elvish as Gimli shuddered in the cage of Legolas’ arms.

\----

“I’m sure our next showing will be more impressive,” Legolas chuckled as he curled around Gimli, pressed his cheek into the fiery hair. They were a mess, and it couldn’t have been more than ten minutes since they’d managed to get their clothes off, but Gimli’s heart was still slowing its pounding pace, and Legolas was still breathing a bit hard (tireless elves indeed). “Practice makes perfect.”

“I’ll not be spreading my legs for an elf,” Gimli growled, just to be clear.

“Of course not,” Legolas soothed, but there was a lilt to his voice that Gimli didn’t care for.

“When the time comes, you’ll be the one spreading those long spider legs of yours,” he said, and firmly.

Legolas’s eyes darkened to a dark glass bottle blue, and that pink tongue darted out to lick parted lips. It was most . . . “I am amenable to that, dwarf,” he murmured, and there was a purr to his voice that sent a very delicious shiver straight through to Gimli’s fingertips. “Though I might have to get you a box.”

“ _Elf_!” Gimli snarled, and Legolas laughed, elvish with that wild tint that made him irresistible.


	18. To Live Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tauriel

Elves learned their history through music.

Where others wrote books, Elves wrote songs – songs of memory, to keep those lost to Arda alive in those who remained.

Tauriel learned of her father through song, years after he had crossed the waters in search of music and peace. 

Her mother was the captain of the king’s personal guard, a fierce fighter who fell in love with a gentle artisan more suited to his home in Rivendell than the harsher, sharper environment of the wood. Yet her role in the Greenwood was more important than his in Elrond’s realm, and so the couple settled in the caves and trees of Thranduil’s land. Tauriel came soon after, her quick birth lauded as something approaching a miracle among the Elves.

Where once he had been surrounded by music, peace, and the delicate arching beauty of Rivendell, Talagon found himself in a forest where skill with weapons and the fight for survival took precedence over the search for beauty. Talagon had been important in Rivendell, soothing the wounded hearts of his people, bringing smiles and laughter. In the Greenwood, he found himself in a world that did not need him. 

Men say, “Love is all you need.” Dwarves devote themselves with a passion that Elves dismiss as obsession. But among elves-

Among elves there are times when love of family cannot overcome love of beauty.

Talagon existed in Tauriel’s memories only as a hint of music, a gentle voice, the echo of a harp. He followed the call of the gulls to a land more suited for his talents when she was yet too young to remember his face.

“Is that why I’m called to music?” Tauriel asked the choir master. “Is Talagon the reason my soul sings to the stars?”

She was only a child, but she knew not to also ask _Is it why I want to leave the forest, and see the world, the moon from other countries?_ because wood elves were not meant to feel such things.

The ancient elf rested her fair hand on the bright fall of Tauriel’s hair. “Children are not their parents,” she said, “you will become your own self. But your voice is sweet and true, and the stars would weep to lose its song.”

Tauriel never knew if they wept. She could not see them, when her mother took her from the choir and placed a bow in her hands instead.

“I would rather sing,” Tauriel told her mother, her small chin shaking.

“There is nothing more important than protecting our people, Tauriel,” Húrel said. “Let music be for more frivolous hearts.”

Tauriel was too young to understand the pain in her mother’s voice, the memory of a deep, pure song, a lute, a feeling of being young and lovely and wanted, lost on the day Talagon fled to the shore. Too young to understand the whispers that followed in her mother’s wake, about how she had been abandoned so quickly, so soon. Too young to understand that Húrel loved her daughter, but felt the stab of pain and rumors every time Tauriel raised her voice in song.

\---

Elves were taught with songs.

It hurt sometimes, to memorize the names and histories, to find herself humming them under her breath. She always sang quietly, afraid of her own voice, of the memories it conjured (her mother’s eyes, something she slowly came to understand), until her teachers took her silence as a lack of comprehension.

“We’re concerned about the girl,” they told her mother, as Tauriel hid among the columns and listened with tears in her eyes. “She doesn’t seem interested in learning.”

Húrel’s eyes flashed. Tauriel’s mother was a beauty, quick-tempered and light on her feet; she didn’t suffer fools lightly. “My daughter learns everything you teach her,” she snapped back, “useless as it is in a world where defending yourself and your people is more important than memorizing names of Elves so cowardly they fled Arda!”

Even Tauriel flinched at her mother’s words. 

Elves were not meant to be bitter.

However, there was one area where Tauriel could excel without seeing the shades of sadness in her mother’s face, or hear the gossip behind her small back: Tauriel became the greatest archer of her age group, to the eternal frustration of one certain brat of a prince.

“It’s rude to hit my arrow like that!” the prince announced, stomping his foot. He was several years Tauriel’s junior, as golden as his father and slim as his mother. “I’m the prince!”

Tauriel eyed him, her mother’s voice in her head: _One day you will protect him, my love. You must be patient. He’s still a boy._

A boy, indeed. He was a _brat_. She wasn’t allowed to be a brat; why should he be?

She did a quick check for adults – none paying attention. 

The chance was worth it.

Tauriel planted her hands on her hips, tossed back her fiery ponytail, and said, “Orcs wouldn’t let you win, so I shouldn’t either! My mother says we learn through failure and error, not through having everyone bow and scrape and lose on purpose.”

The prince glared at her.

Tauriel glared back.

“I can help you get better, though,” she offered, keeping an eye on the instructors, two of whom were showing interest in the conversation. She knew how to read trainers; her mother only let her work with the best. “If you can show me how to use a blade.”

The prince eyed her with clear suspicion.

“You’ll help me with the bow,” he repeated slowly, “if I’ll show you the blade?”

Tauriel nodded. “I want to learn knives mostly but,” she lowered her voice, “my mother insists I specialize in the bow.”

The prince’s bright blue eyes widened, and he dropped his voice as well. “My father says I must learn the sword,” he returned conspiratorially, “and that the bow is for hunters, not princes at the head of the army. But I would learn the bow first, if I could.”

They exchanged a look.

“I know a glade,” the prince hissed. “Nobody goes there.”

“I can make targets,” Tauriel murmured in return, “and I’m free in the afternoon, just as you are, prince.”

The prince grinned at her. He had a sunny smile, and all the brattiness disappeared in an instant. “Legolas,” he said.

“Tauriel,” she answered, and grinned right back.

\----

Elves mourned through song.

The attack had been unexpected, a final group of orcs, once thought extinct, bearing down on the wood and slaying indiscriminately. More hunters were killed than anything else, and a scattering of soldiers, but also-

As voices rose in anguish, and tears flowed, Tauriel came to stand at her friend’s side.

“I’m sorry,” she said, as if the words were enough, as if they could be enough. As if her loss as a babe could compare to her prince’s loss as an adult. She missed only a hint of a face, the shadow of a voice; he missed warm arms and laughter and grace. He’d lost his mother.

And his father stood now, distant and silent, as the wood elves transformed their pain into music and sent it flying to the distant heavens.

“I can’t sing,” Legolas whispered, shamed, his voice rough and his face wet with tears. He wasn’t beautiful now, with his eyes swollen and his nose red; he looked almost like a Man, trapped in the slender trappings of an elf. “My voice won’t work.”

Tauriel bit her lip and looked away a moment. 

She had not sung in two hundred years. 

Legolas’ hand slid into hers, held on, and his shoulders shook as he whispered the words, tangled in his tongue, coughed and sobbed for their gentle queen, brought down in fear and blood and lost forever.

Tauriel squeezed his hand and closed her eyes, and added her voice to the rising chorus.

“Your voice is beautiful,” the prince said when the song was over, and there was only pain and loss left in its wake. “You should sing more.”

“I’m a warrior,” Tauriel answered, and she was, that was true, it was only the end that was a lie, “not a singer.”

“You should be both,” he answered. “One day, when you and I leave the woods and wander the world, you will be.” And went to stand beside his father.

Thranduil did not look at him, or offer comfort.

They were separated, not united, by their pain.

Tauriel’s eyes traced the crowd and found her mother, standing still and silent; a guard who failed to save her queen.

She was not surprised when, two weeks later, Húrel left with two dozen others to follow the call of the gulls.

\--------

Elves loved in songs.

“Take care,” Húrel said, cupping Tauriel’s face in her hands, tipping her head and kissing her forehead. It made Tauriel feel young again, a child who didn’t understand the lingering pain in her mother’s eyes.

Tauriel didn’t know what to say. What _could_ you say to your only parent, who would rather cross the water than stand at your side? “Tell…tell Talagon hello,” she finally whispered, instead of asking _Why am I not enough for anyone? Why is the Wood not enough for me?_

Húrel sighed, a gentle sound. “I will. Until you come to meet him yourself.” She smiled. “You’ve always been so like him,” she said, “a voice to make the stars dance. I’m sorry I didn’t let you remain with the choirs. I’m sorry I brought you to my life of danger and death.” 

Tauriel didn’t answer. There was nothing to say. She would be a member of the guard now, with her mother gone. There was a good chance she’d be a captain soon. She would be her mother’s successor, not her father’s.

Tauriel’s mother turned and walked out of her life on a fine spring morning.

“Sing to me,” Legolas said later, when the grief for them both was still too fresh for sleep. “Sing to me about the stars and the world of Men. Sing the songs of Gondor and Rohan that the traders bring, or the lullaby we heard in Dale.”

And she did, in the quiet of the glade where they taught each other to fight, her voice sweet and clear to the accompaniment of the wind rustling through leaves.

She kept singing for him for the next 1500 years, an undercurrent to their dreams of a world where Wood Elves need not tread.

Only quietly, surrounded by the dark of the woods and the light of the stars.

\-------

Elves hid their music among the trees, along with their bodies and their hearts.

But Legolas and Tauriel kept radios, listened to the world, peeked out among the leaves and imagined something else. Radios changed their lives, brought them music from Erebor, from Drúadan Forest, from Ered Luin, from Esgorath. Brought folk songs that became blues, blues that became rock, rock that became metal; they listened to disco out of Rohan, and rap from scattered settlements of Men; they danced in the moonlight to albums coming from Rivendell, and even one solitary record out of the Shire, filled with playful dance tunes and silly songs.

The king called it foolishness, a strange mix of deep fondness for his son and his son’s friend and genuine concern. “The world has no use for Elves,” he said. “There’s nothing there to see.”

“The forest has been closed for centuries!” Legolas argued. “We can’t hide here forever. There was a time we walked the paths to Rivendell and Lothlórien, to Gondolin-”

“Gondolin stands empty,” Thranduil said, and the pain in his voice was as ancient as the seas. “As do Caras Galadhon and Lindon. Only three cities remain, and that is because we keep to ourselves.” Thranduil laid a hand on his son’s shoulder, and Tauriel watched as her friend’s back straightened and tightened against the urge to pull away. Legolas could have argued that Rivendell and Lorien did not hide themselves away so completely as the Greenwood, but he didn’t. They had argued over it too many times. Even as stubborn as Legolas was, he had given up on his father.

There had been a time when father and son were of one mind, bridged by the gentle good sense of wife and mother. 

“I cannot hide here forever,” Legolas cried in the treetops, where they perched staring out at Dale, at rising smoke and darting cars, at a world they knew only through clandestine radio receivers and the occasional traveler from Rivendell. 

He didn’t.

Legolas left the Greenwood, and Tauriel had never felt so alone.

Until the day he came for her, and asked her to defy her king for the love of her prince. 

“Come with me,” Legolas insisted, his eyes bright, cheeks almost pink. Tauriel hadn’t seen him like this for centuries – hadn’t seen _anyone_ like this for centuries. Not a pale imitation of the endless forest, but _alive_. This was the bratling she’d trained with the bow; this was the boy who taught her to throw knives.

Enthusiasm made him young.

“They need an elf to sing-”

Tauriel’s hand tightened on her bow. “You’re an elf.”

Legolas laughed, like he did when he was young, tossing his hair back and eyes sparkling. “They want a female elf,” he insisted. “And I said I knew one who itched to leave the forest and see the world!”

Oh, she did.

Tauriel was light-headed at the thought. Leaving the confines of the forest, seeing valleys and lakes, climbing mountains, exploring the Men’s tall cities and the Dwarves’ deep mountains.

It should have been a difficult decision. She should have felt the need to weigh her position in the guard, her friends, her life here, against the off chance that she might find some of the light that infused Legolas.

But it wasn’t.

It was easy.

“Yes,” she said, because it meant adventure and change, and travel, and _music._

It meant breaking down the walls that hid the world from her.  
\------

Elves revered music, but the Heirs of Durin _lived_ it.

Her song, when she sang for this strange little family, was sweet and clear. It was the song of a child in the voice of a woman, high and fluting and very elvish.

“More!” Fíli said, as his hands danced on the strings and bow. “Louder! Don’t hide from it!” There was a challenge in his eyes, bright and passionate. “Embrace it.”  
Tauriel saw his challenge. She accepted it.

Tauriel sang.

And she soared.

Bilbo and Bofur took her in, offering her friendship and snacks and moments of shared amusement as they watched the antics of their fellows-

Fíli and Kíli, so unashamedly in love.

Gimli and Legolas, believing they were living a secret.

(Legolas laughing and teasing and smiling, Legolas at ease with his body, Legolas without a sword strapped to his back or a bow in hand – the little brother of her heart and prince of her realm, gazing with utter fondness at his dwarf as if the secrets of the ages lay in Gimli’s sharp tongue and broad hands.)

Dwalin, and the way his eyes followed Ori.

Days slid by as she sat in council with Hobbit and Dwarf, as odd a trio of friends as their world had ever seen, and Tauriel learned to smile again in the face of Bofur’s chortles and Bilbo’s soft chuckles.

And then Gloin, Gimli’s father and the owner of the band’s record label, hired a team to create a look for her, elegant and tall and lovely.

“Aye,” Bofur said, grinning saucily at her as she stared at herself in the mirror, clad in a dress of forest green that clung at the waist and flowed from her hips and was everything her armor was not. “There’ll not be a soul can look away from you at the rest of us, and that’s just as well!”

“Speak for yourself,” Kíli shot back. He was dressed in black leather, a long coat that accentuated the long line of his waist and the breadth of his shoulders. They were all being subjected to Gloin’s scrutinizing eye, the boys in various shades of black and gray (Fíli’s scandalously bare arms, Kíli’s long coat and wild boots, Ori’s soft sweater vest, Dwalin scowling at them all in something that might have once been a Man-style tuxedo, Gimli in thick layers, Legolas long and lean in silver and gray), and Tauriel a shining, colorful star in the midst of them.

“Lovely,” Legolas said, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror.

In the mirror, where she saw herself, a new creature, where she thought-

_I am alive_

And heard only pounding rhythms and violin, only the growl of guitars and her own voice, soaring above them all.

Tauriel laughed, and her voice was like bells.

_I am free._

Her eyes shone with a silvery light, and Tauriel knew she would live forever now, among the stars.


	19. My Marks On Your Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebration, Fili and Kili

Usually, Kíli was the early riser in their bed.

He would wake just after the dawn, stretching and slipping quietly from the covers while Fíli, who had almost certainly stayed up too late working the night before, slept on. Only when breakfast and coffee were ready would Kíli pad quietly back into the room to wake his brother with teasing words and morning kisses.

There was, however, one circumstance in which Fíli always woke first, and Fíli loved those mornings.

He loved what he could do to Kíli, pliant and sleepy and just-

Perfect.

The evening after they finally – finally, four years after the began, now with this delicate new family at their sides – recorded their first proper single, the _Heirs of Durin_ celebrated for over an hour before going their separate ways. By the time they reached their own flat, Kíli was pawing at Fíli’s clothes, rubbing against him, grinning at him with dark eyes that begged for what his voice soon demanded: to be pinned down with Fíli inside him, riding him so hard Kíli would ache in his hips and thighs for days to follow.

Fíli did, but only after teasing him, only after holding still until Kíli snarled and fucked himself on Fíli’s cock (on his hands and knees, the arch of his spine and the splashes of color over black ink, more beautiful than any song, even the one forever held in Kíli’s skin), until Kíli was cursing his name and demanding, until he couldn’t wait anymore and threw his weight on Kíli’s body and thrust hard enough to lose himself in the constant slap of skin on skin and Kíli’s delighted grunts of pleasure.

Their climaxes were hard and messy and loud, Fíli’s voice a growl and Kíli’s a roar. 

Kíli was always so pleased and so tired after getting what he wanted that he’d still be asleep, curled up and over Fíli’s body, when Fíli woke the next morning.

Which meant Fíli was free to tease and touch to his heart’s desire.

Kíli wasn't beautiful when he slept, not like in the movies. He was sprawled on his side and his mouth was open, his face squashed messily against the pillows. But he was...sweet. And loose and sleepy. And absolutely delicious.

Fíli grinned slowly to himself and shifted in the messy covers (spicy with the scent of sex and they’d wash them later, put on fresh sheets like lemons), reaching for the bottle of lube he'd made excellent use of the night before (Kíli wrapped around him, Kíli dragging him down, hot and tight and demanding in his ear, that low voice seductive and filthy-).

Fíli shivered as he slicked up two fingers and slid behind his brother, the familiar warmth of Kíli's back and the scent of Kíli's coconut shampoo all tangled with sweat and come making him want to nip and bite at his neck.

And why not? He could - once Kíli woke up properly. And his favorite way to wake Kíli up was-

A gentle hand under Kíli's thigh, lifting it just a bit, slipping his other hand down, gently rubbing the sensitive, slightly reddened skin, undoubtedly sore in the way Kíli loved. Kíli was a deep sleeper, he made a soft noise but didn't wake until Fíli grinned to himself, shifted a bit of dark hair out of his way, and deliberately bit down on the warm skin of that shoulder as he pushed both fingers into his Kíli’s body.

Kíli woke all on a moan that was meant to be Fíli's name, his morning erection twitching as his dark eyes fluttered open.

Fíli wanted every morning for the rest of their lives to start with the sound of his name on Kíli’s lips.

Fíli loved using his fingers. He loved details, loved the feel of strings under his fingertips, loved the flow of ink on paper, and adored the heat of Kíli's body, drawing him in, how he could flick his fingers just so and earn a low, pleased moan.

"Nnn Fíli...." and Kíli stretched against him, bruised skin and dark hair, Fíli's scent all over him (salt and sex and love).

"Morning, baby," Fíli murmured, licking and kissing his way to one ear and nipping at the lobe.

Kíli giggled, just once, something he only did like this, and he vibrated around Fíli's fingers (still a bit slick, still open and ready, and Fíli's cock hardened at the memory, but he paid it no mind. This wasn't about Fíli, it was about Kíli.)

Fíli pulled away long enough to reach out and gently shift Kíli on to his back - and there. Now he was beautiful. Long limbs and sleepy-eyed smile, brown hair a mess around his face, the dark shadow of beard, the trail of hair leading down to his lovely cock.

Fíli always fell in love all over again, when he saw his Kíli like this.

He fell in love twenty times a day, thirty, and it always made his heart pound and music pulse in his chest and flow through his fingers.

Fíli smiled as Kíli stretched his arms above his head - hedonistic thing, just waiting for Fíli to pleasure him - and shifted down on the bed, nipping at that treasure trail, sharp little tugs with his teeth.

Every soft moan was a melody, the slick slide of his fingers the harmony. Fíli played both together as a master would, one leading the other.

Kíli lifted his legs over Fíli's back as Fíli's clever fingers slid back in, twisted, pressed against his prostate and gently massaged.

Kíli-

Kíli back against him, taking him deeper, keeping him close, and his lips parted as he panted out approval. It was an early-morning-Kíli noise, satisfied and unguarded, 

Fíli's body thrummed with something that was beyond a simple search for orgasm. It was something else, something that purred deep in his chest when Kíli's body responded to Fíli's touch.

Fíli licked his lips, and saw the way Kíli's gaze sharpened and traced the movement.

He smiled, and did it again, tilting his head just enough to shift the beads along his chin and make Kíli’s breath catch.

Kíli moved his hips, eyes on Fíli's mouth, his voice a low murmur. “Mmm, you’d feel so good inside me, Fíli, please-”

“No baby.” Fíli traced his lips to one of those lovely bruises, bit down just enough to make Kíli shove his hips up and cry out, grabbing at the sheets and Fíli’s hair. “You’re too sore.” He scissored his fingers, curled them, stroked through the shudder he earned, the little gasp of discomfort. “See?”

"But-" Kíli whined, but no more, because he knew Fíli was right, and because the beads of Fíli's mustache were tracing across the sensitive skin of his thighs, over his balls-

Fíli hummed happily to himself as he ran his tongue along the underside of Kíli's cock. As he took it in his mouth (thick and heavy and perfect against his tongue), Fíli shoved in his fingers and grabbed for the faint impression of his own fingertips on one of Kíli's pale thighs.

Kíli shouted, nothing but Fíli's name, his hands pulling at Fíli's hair as Fíli lowered his head, sucked, knew his braids were teasing the base of Kíli's erection.

He would never get rid of them, after seeing what they did to Kíli, how the muscles under his skin would twitch and tighten under the faint brush of metal and braids.

Fíli lifted his head and smiled up his brother's body.

Kíli met his gaze, his eyes dark, his chest already moving in little pants. He wouldn't last long - never did, not like this, always fell apart so quickly.

Fíli shivered again.

No one else did this to Kíli

No one.

He turned his head, landed a nipping kiss to Kíli's thigh.

"You want to come, Kíli?" he asked, his voice a murmur, but Kíli heard it - heard it and shivered and nodded, all on a pant.

“Yes."

When Kíli wanted it hard, he demanded and shoved and growled. But like this, in the morning-

 

Fíli traced his mouth to Kíli's hips, the splay of bruises - Fíli's fingertips, hard to imagine how guilty he felt that first time, when now he bit down on it gently as he stroked his fingers deep and steady in his Kíli's pliant body.

Kíli whimpered and moaned, his hips a restless rhythm as his hard cock brushed Fíli's cheek. Fíli bit and nibbled and scraped his teeth over tender, faintly bruised flesh until Kíli couldn't stand it-felt the shift in Kíli's body, felt Kíli's hand shift, wrap around himself, stroke.

"That's it," Fíli murmured, and this was everything, making Kíli feel good.

Everything

"Come on, baby," against Kíli's skin, and "I want to feel it, I want to watch."

"Fíli!"

Kíli's eyes went wild and Fíli lifted his head, his gaze taking it in hungrily - the spread of Kíli's thighs, the lift of his hips, the head of Kíli's dick appearing and disappearing among those talented fingers-

Fíli's fingers, deep in his body, driving him wild.

Fíli knew Kíli, read him, would dedicate a lifetime to giving Kíli pleasure. He knew just went to reach out with his free hand, when to dig his nails in, a flash of pain, so high on Kíli's thigh that Kíli's desperately pumping fist hit the backs of his fingers-

Kíli came, pumping on his own belly, his eyes wide and his voice a rough shout of _yes Fíli please_ , Fíli's name on his lips and Fíli's fingers in his body and Fíli's mark on his hips.

When Kíli relaxed, his eyes heavy lidded, panting gently for air, white splashed on his belly from Fíli's touch, he was breathtaking.

Fíli gently pulled his fingers free, trailed them along over sensitized skin-

"Nnn no, 's too much-"

Kíli’s voice was rough, begging, but Fíli already knew. His fingertips danced away, over the dip of Kíli’s stomach, the splash of white that proved what Fíli had done for him.

"Shhh,” Fíli whispered, and then, because it was true, “I have you."

Fíli kissed his belly, a burst of bitterness. "I've got you." And he did, wouldn't push too far-only flicked his tongue among the curls, gathering Kíli's release on his tongue, a possessive surge of adoration in his chest as he made his way up Kíli's body to his mouth.

The kiss was light and sweet, ending on a shared breath and a gentle, "Hey," in Kíli's rough, early morning voice.

 

"Hey," Fíli answered, smiling into a second lazy kiss and curling happily around Kíli's body.

Kíli used to fuss on mornings like this - at least once he could think again, which could sometimes be as much as an hour later. He’d jerk in Fíli’s arms and burst out, “You didn’t come!” until Fíli laughed and kissed him and soothed him with his fingertips, like music against Kíli’s sensitive skin. Fíli couldn’t put into words how these mornings had to be about Kíli, were meant to be about Kíli, that though it made him hard he didn’t feel the need to do anything about it; he shivered through the pleasure of seeing Kíli fall apart under his possessive touch.

Kíli had learned to accept Fíli’s idiosyncrasies without proper explanation, however, and now he just curled into Fíli's hold like a happy cat. 

“I love you,” Kíli murmured, his breath soft on Fíli’s chest. 

They were simple words, that meant absolutely everything. 

“Always,” Fíli answered, because anything else was unimaginable, and Kíli pressed a kiss over Fíli’s heart, nuzzling in though neither was sleepy.

Half hard but utterly sated, Fíli had what he wanted - Kíli, sated and pleased, almost purring as he tucked his nose against Fíli's chest and snuggled in for another hour of utter laziness.


	20. Love and Passion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Dori, Nori_
> 
> Please not new pairing tag.

Dori loved with a fierceness few could ever match.

He never “fell” in love, whatever that mysterious phrase meant; he simply wasn’t wired that way. His stomach never fluttered and his eyes never followed another person – male or female – with any sort of proper lust. Males were handsome or females were beautiful; they were art, not sexual partners.

But he didn’t need to bother with romance to love deeply and fiercely.

The first love of his life was his mother, her hair already shining silver the first time he opened his eyes and took her in. His mother was his source of solid, common sense advice, of warm cuddles by the fire, of lullabies and firm scolding he (almost) always deserved; she taught Dori to sing from his abdomen and transform hair from a mess to intricate braids. From his mother Dori inherited a sense of organization and his hair, silver-white before his hundredth birthday.

The second was his father, small and square, his hands clever and gentle, his voice cultured. Dori’s father filled his belly with hot food and taught his hands to sew and knit and crochet. From his father Dori inherited his voice and his accent and his gray-blue eyes.

The third was a little red-faced bundle of kicking feet and running nose, and the words:

“You’re a big brother now, Dori,”

That made his heart race and his eyes widen as something in his young chest clicked into place.

(Others spoke of finding a craft like this, and years later, Dori would claim this feeling was caused by the texture of cloth in his hands; it was a lie. This was his craft, this baby in his hands, the baby to follow, his parents who needed looking after even if they were too grown-up to know it. He didn’t know how to say that, though; he didn’t know of any other dwarf whose craft was _being a big brother._ )

The fourth and greatest love of Dori’s life was the miracle of Ered Luin, the tiny baby brother who became, by the time he was toddling around their family’s small living room, the center of Dori’s world.

The weeks after his parents’ accident were a blur of condolences and lawyers and decisions that he couldn’t make, shouldn’t make, not like this, with tears in his eyes and Nori closing down and the baby needing care; but they had to be made.

He never properly remembered calling the university and saying he would no longer need his scholarships in design and theater, that he wouldn’t be available for the technical crew for their summer production after all. He wouldn’t ever recall talking to the family lawyer and hearing her say that his aunt had offered to take in both the baby and Nori.

He never recollected the way he’d shouted, the threats he’d made, the smashed chair, how if the lawyer hadn’t known and loved his family, he would have ended up in jail for what he did to that office.

At least his aunt hadn’t been in the room at the time.

He’d never recall those horrible days, but he always knew he’d done it: he’d kept his family (remnants, broken remains) together.

\----

Nori loved with the bite of sarcasm, sometimes too-thoroughly hiding that his heart beat steadily for his small family.

His parents never hid it from him, that he was Dori’s biological cousin rather than his brother. But it also never mattered: certainly not to Dori, who hovered over him like a fussing hen, or to Nori, who felt no need to claim four cousins as elder siblings when Dori was already more than he could handle. 

Yet they fought, Nori and Dori, Nori and his mother, Nori and his father, as he grew. As his eyes wandered and his hands flew and school was a bore because he could learn it so quickly. His grades were near-perfect but his behavior the opposite; he finished in ten minutes and then squirmed and sighed and doodled and threw erasers and created intricate ways to send paper further to keep from dying of boredom.

“If you could just _focus_ ,” his teachers would say, “you could do anything you put your mind to.”

And, “I’ll have to call in your parents again,” the headmaster would sigh, but Nori just wanted to get out of the wooden desks and the stuffy offices and climb through ancient parts of the mountains that were meant to be off-limits.

“You could do so much,” his mother would sigh, and “I know it’s tough, but you just have to make it another two decades,” his father would promise, and “Why do you have to make everything so _hard_ for them?!” Dori would demand.

Nori didn’t know. He didn’t necessarily do it on _purpose_. He liked learning what he was interested in learning, and he didn’t like arguing with his family. His father, especially, had the power to make him feel like absolute garbage with nothing but a disappointed look – and he dealt with that feeling by snarling and stomping, even as he said over and over in his head _why are you doing this? Why?!_

He didn’t mean to make everyone’s lives hard. He was just bored and unhappy.

When his parents died, his heart cracked and bled, but dropping out of school was no hardship. 

“Don’t,” Dori told him, and there was pain in his eyes, and determination, and he thought he kept it all secret from Nori but he couldn’t. Nori’s eyes saw more than they should and his ears heard more, and his mind raced ahead.

He was more than a child, but not an adult.

Dori was an adult, but not in his full majority.

They wouldn’t survive on Dori’s salary. Their parents’ life insurance paid off their small home, but they’d need food and water and clothes for a growing baby. Dori wanted to do everything, take care of everyone alone, but he simply couldn’t.

Dori gave up his dreams to take care of Ori, the light in this sudden darkness of their lives.

Nori, secretly guilty, took the excuse of their sudden poverty to embrace his.

He helped make money by taking jobs in the local B movie industry, learning special effects and being paid under the table as he worked hours that were illegal for someone his age. He worked days and Dori worked nights, and in between the two of them scrabbled and fought and cried and tried to raise a baby.

He worked and he ate and he tried to sleep as Ori fussed.

It was exhausting, trying to be an adult when he was no such thing.

But every day, when he came home, when Dori set out the dinner which was his breakfast and Ori scrambled from his chair and rushed to Nori’s arms, it was worth it.

\------

Dori would never say it, perhaps never realized it, but in a way Ori was a blessing. As others his age paired off, as the eyes of his age mates began to track his square build and broad features, as other males began to offer him dinners and gifts and occasionally (to his well-bread horror) beds, it was easy to dissuade them with the mention of a baby, or the sight of a toddler strapped drooling to his back. He rarely had to flat-out refuse, though his temperament was such that he did when needed, blunt and direct in his soothing voice: _I’m not interested._

Of course, they always took it personally.

But Dori was strong – strangely so – and the security job he found to keep them all alive and together trained him to hone that strength and use it. He didn’t love being a security guard, missed the texture of fabric in his hands, but he did like the feeling of confidence he gained from being properly taught to defend himself and others. 

If he came home with blood on his knuckles once or twice, it was only because if he allowed someone to beat him for saying no, who would take care of his brothers?

It certainly wasn’t a way to let out some of the tension that ate at his shoulders and tore through his back, so he wouldn’t take it out on the hazel eyed dwarfling that dogged his steps in afternoon hours, or the increasingly sharp middle brother who dealt with pressure my lashing out at the one soul most likely to forgive him every time. Dori was born and bred to be better than that.

Or…perhaps it was.

His gentle parents would have been horrified.

Dori was sometimes, too.

\---

Nori wouldn’t admit it, not for years, but he tried his first illegal pipeweed at 55. It was a gift from a coworker, guaranteed to help him relax after three nights with a fussy Ori, knee-high and finally recovering from a nasty ear infection.

He did sleep.

But only after he soared.

\---

Dori cried when Nori was arrested for driving under a permit and high on weed and pills.

He didn’t let Nori see it, couldn’t let Nori see it. There’d been something hard in Nori for months, an edge that made him sarcastic and nasty where before he was dry and sometimes difficult. This Nori was not the one who slumped at the table with him in those rare hours they were home together, pouring over bills and trying to cut corners; this was a new Nori, one who disappeared when he was needed.

Nori was meant to be watching Ori, ten years old and safely (blessedly) tucked safe in bed when Dori got the call at work to come get his brother out of jail.

Dori called their aunt and asked her to watch Ori; he said Nori’d had an accident. 

If the wrong people found out where Nori _really_ was, there was too much of a chance he, and possibly Ori, could be taken away. Dori had only recently reached his official majority.

Dori rode the bus to the police station, because he and Nori shared their father’s old car between them. He spent the entire ride ranting angrily in his head while shoving down tears.

_I’ve failed,_ he told his mother. _I’m so sorry,_ he told his father. _I’ll try to fix it. I will,_ he told himself, told that puzzle piece inside that said this was what he was meant to do and who he was meant to be.

He greeted Nori with dry eyes and a cold stare, sharp words on his tongue.

Nori laughed.

He was still high.

\---

Nori cried when he crashed, when the drug abandoned him and all he had left was guilt and regrets, but no tears escaped his eyes, and he clenched his pain into his curled fists.

“You left him alone,” Dori said, and there were dark circles under his eyes and tears in his voice. 

Nori had never felt much shame in his life, but he felt it then. It twisted in his stomach and made him feel sick. 

But shame wasn’t permanent, while exhaustion and ennui often was; Nori never left Ori alone again, but only because he hired babysitters, not because he stopped. 

He needed to soar. He needed to not think, not worry, not feel worthless and young and-

After Nori’s third arrest, he came home to find his things neatly packed and stacked on the porch.

“I’ll not have you hurt Ori,” Dori said, and Nori wondered if he really thought Nori couldn’t see the wet tracks down his face. “I’m sorry, Nori. You can’t live here anymore.”

Nori travelled from one couch to another, and drank and smoked and realized-

It wasn’t worth it.

Dori let him back in the house three months later. Ori ran into his arms, crowing a greeting, and Nori swore he’d never touch anything that could take this away from him, ever again.

\----

The first time Dori heard Ori play, he was shocked into silence.

(“A rare event indeed,” Nori snickered, still smelling of gunpowder from his latest film effort, and Dori’s quelling glare only made him smirk infuriatingly back.)

Words like prodigy were not abused among Dwarves as they might be among Men. To Dwarves, craft was everything, the basis of each individual’s soul, their lives. Only the best and brightest, only those born with a skill that training could barely contain, were considered prodigies.

Ori played as if the spirit of their Maker danced in his fingers.

“He can’t eat, sleep, and breathe piano!” Nori argued as Dori scrimped and saved for private lessons. “He has to be a _kid_ , Dori. Do,” he waved his hands, “kid things! With other kids!”

“This is what he wants.”

“How do you know? Maybe this is what _you_ want, not Ori!”

It was a nasty blow, something Dori had worried about himself – there’d been a time when he’d wanted to create, to make a living at it, to be well known for art and not just a manager in a security company. But that had never been as important as Ori, couldn’t compare to his need to take care of Nori. 

If he screwed them up, if Ori ended up terribly unhappy because of Dori’s choices, he would be a failure in every sense of the word: as a brother, as a surrogate father, as a master of his strange, secret craft.

Dori gritted his teeth and tried not to think back to days when he could sometimes knock people on their backs for getting on his nerves. Not Nori, of course, he’d never lay a hand on his brother, no matter how quarrelsome he was, but it wasn’t hard to pick a fight when you were lovely and others didn’t know how to deal with that, couldn’t be gentleman.

He took a slow breath.

His days of hidden barroom brawls were over.

“I asked him,” he said, trying to sound calm. “I ask him every day and every day this is what he wants. It’s his _craft_ , Nori,” he pressed, and saw Nori wince; Dori might pretend his craft, but he was fairly certain Nori didn’t have one at all, “and he’s a prodigy. It’d be wrong not to let him be what and who he is.”

When Ori became more and more shy around children his own age, and grew increasingly comfortable with adults than anyone who might invite him to play, Dori questioned his decisions.

When Ori left Ered Luin for Erebor on the heels of a near-prince, Dori questioned his sanity. It broke his heart far more than it should. 

Ori didn’t need him anymore.

When Ori called, his voice thrumming with enthusiasm, and spoke of security and music and an actual elven prince and concerts and tours-

Dori quit his job, packed his bags, and accepted the invitation. 

\---

The first time Nori had sex was two days after his sixtieth birthday.

Dori would have been horrified if he knew. Dwarves weren’t known for their sex drives, usually activated only be deep love and devotion. But Nori-

Well.

She was beautiful, if perhaps less than truly talented, but such was the norm in the sorts of films Nori worked on. She had an inviting smile and soft thighs and taught him to use those clever fingers of his in all-new ways before taking him in her body. 

It felt _good_ : an explosion of pleasure at the end of a slow build of teasing.

Over time – and with a select group of friends of a similar mind – Nori found that he could put his energy and his cleverness into making women fall apart, could calm his mind in the bliss of orgasm, could be friends in the daytime and tumble at night. 

His partners varied, though there weren’t a large number of them. He remained friends with the first female he bedded (well, who bedded him), a handful of other female friends, the occasional assignation with a couple who liked to have a bit of fun with a third, and even a Woman he met while working. She was small for one of the Big Folk, but still 7 inches taller than him, slender and smooth and fascinating. She approved of his hands and the strength in his hips, and liked to cook dinner afterward, settling in for rambling, light conversation.

Some of his friends fell in love, married off, took on that sort of dwarvish possessiveness his people were so famous for, but Nori didn’t. He wandered, he worked, he learned how to avoid getting slapped by females of a different mind.

Maybe, sometimes, he was a bit jealous of what others had, that one person who was theirs. Perhaps once or twice he thought of waking in the arms of a female he loved as a husband, rather than a friend who winked on her way out the door. 

But his life was good. He had Dori fussing after him, Ori growing up and going off to school, friends with similar…interests, and a job he enjoyed. He didn’t have a great deal to fuss about. He was content.

Then Ori called, and asked him to leave everyone he knew, his job, his friends, and move to Erebor to plan special effects for his band’s concerts.

He didn’t say yes immediately. 

But when Nori was a dwarf with a flair for adventure, so he did agree after a couple of weeks’ consideration, and shoved his few boxes of belongings in among Dori’s copious amount in the moving truck they hired to take them to Erebor.

\----

Dori found family in Erebor.

They were Ori’s family already, and it stung at first, wiggled in his skin and whispered _they would have raised him right,_

But his jealousy couldn’t last long against the odd kindness of them all, nor their tendency to need looking after.

In the depths of music, the _Heirs of Durin_ forgot to eat drink, or sleep. They didn’t dress warmly enough. They didn’t take enough breaks. They broke out in fights that were nothing more than cranky tiredness.

“They need a keeper,” their manager, Balin, sighed one day, and Dori nodded agreement. 

They needed a big brother.

Dori could do that.

\----

Nori found . . . novelty in Erebor.

So many things were different, so much was new. Erebor was ancient, a warren of dwarven ingenuity, and there at her base: Dale, a city like none he’d ever seen.

Nori learned everything he could. 

He poked, he prodded, he read, he practiced. His fingers danced over new controls and changed settings and learned stagecraft. He joked with the band and argued cheerfully with Dori and watched Ori have proper friends and made life hard for Dwalin the cellist (he was wonderfully easy to annoy).

For the first time in his life, Nori had no time to be bored.

And there was-

-one more thing.

Tall and elegant, slender and firey, with a sharp smile and a fluting voice, and a mind not unlike his own.

When Nori met with experienced stage techs, he often found an elf at his elbow. When he tested what he learned on their first stages in Erebor, an elf stood in the center and offered criticisms and accolades.

When he told stories of a misspent youth, an elf grinned and dragged him outside and told him legends of the stars.

“Why don’t you tell me about your life?” he asked.

“Because we went nowhere,” Tauriel answered, her eyes tracing the shapes in the stars – so different from the ones Nori grew up knowing, despite being the same sky. “There were battles, but that was all.”

Nori though of that, of two millennia of boredom, and he shuddered. Tucked in his pocket was a pipeweed that skirted the edge of the law, discrete and sweet-smelling and just-

What he needed sometimes.

“You can go anywhere you like now,” he said, and carefully passed her his pipe, grinning at her look of confusion and faint disgust.

She tried it, and it made her laugh.

Tauriel watched him, sometimes, with bright curiosity in her eyes, with hunger for experience and life in her fingertips, reaching out-

On the cusp of Heirs first album release, Nori reached back, and touched.


	21. Tangled and Held

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _his hands were bound_

The sweater was a gift from Dori.

Dori didn’t tell his new employers up front that he knitted to relax. He had an image to maintain: the fierce older brother of a young prodigy, a security officer since he wasn’t quite of-age and inherited two little brothers to care for. He was a part of the Heirs’ team on his baby brother’s recommendation, and he wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardize his position. A lifetime of dealing with dwarves who had a very set idea of what made an effective guard had taught him to wear one face at work and another at home.

Ori, however, assured him knitting certainly wouldn’t be a problem with Fíli and Kíli, or the rest of the Heirs of Durin. “Fíli’s asked about my sweaters,” he said, “when I told him they were handmade he was fascinated. We all work with our hands, Dori." He curved his fingers over Dori's with the shy-brazen smile that only Ori could manage. "We’re all creative people. Fíli’s a good person, and a good leader. He likes people to be themselves, like he and Kíli are. You’ll see.”

Dori hadn’t been so sure about that, though the fact that Fíli and Kíli cheerfully and openly acted like brothers one moment and rather over-intense lovers the next convinced him that they, at least, believed in being themselves (though really, their public displays could be a bit much from time to time!). It relaxed him enough to sit in the room as the core writing team yelled and argued and created, and pull out his knitting. There needed to be someone in the room to keep them all from going and going until they fell over unconscious, and it might as well be him.

Kíli was generally the noisiest in the beginning, all enthusiasm and banging out rhythms on every available surface, but he would wander off once they’d settled on the basic tempo, reappearing primarily to provide snacks and beer (or tea, or coffee, or sodas) when he checked for updates. That left Bilbo, Fíli, Ori, and Bofur, who would grow progressively louder the more they talked. Bilbo waved his hands around, clocking one of the others in an ear or nose more than once; Fíli would bang the table with one fist when he felt he was making a truly important point (a tendency, Dori learned over time, that he had picked up from his rather intimidating uncle); Bofur would grab his clarinet and play something to illustrate an idea; and Dori’s little brother, his once-quiet Ori, would stand up and point his finger and bellow above the lot of them.

The two elves offered little input in these arguments. The prince seemed content to sit and watch, clearly besotted with Gimli Gloinson, a handsome dwarven specimen indeed. They would play around with the guitar line of whatever the others were fighting about, shooting fond insults at each other.

The red-headed female, Tauriel, disappeared as often as not, presumably to explore the city, though Nori had airily referenced her popping up where he was receiving training in running stage lights and effects. 

Everyone came together when it was time to completely round a song out, even Thorin and the rather ridiculously large and tattooed Dwalin. Ori should have been intimidated by all that age, all that talent – but he wasn’t. He was bossy and pleased and shy and had a great time, even as they all seemed like they were going to kill each other at any moment.

It reminded Dori a bit of Nori’s insistence that Ori have some normality when he was in his thirties, prodigy or no. He wondered if this was what Nori had wanted for their brother, arguments and snacks and drinks and general noise, occasional breaks for games or walks “outside where there is sunlight!” (Bilbo’s influence, when he’d _had enough,_ and dragged them all out to a café down in Dale, a protective Dori on their heels). Well . . . he had it now. Perhaps Ori was just a late bloomer who needed like minds to be as noisy and “normal” as Nori once wished him to be.

They had a grand time yelling at each other . . . usually. And Dori was there to break it up if it got out of hand. But until then, he would work on his knitting, the calm click of the needles a soothing counterpoint to the chaos at the work table.

“I didn’t know you could knit,” Fíli said one afternoon when Kíli had broken in and insisted everyone _take a break and eat something, also you might all consider showering_. 

“. . . It’s relaxing,” Dori answered, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

Fíli laughed, but there wasn’t any mockery in it. “I can’t imagine anything so intricate being relaxing,” he said, which was ridiculous coming from a dwarf who insisted on creating a hand-written, beautifully calligraphic copy of anything they composed as a way to unwind. “But it’s really fascinating.” He leaned forward, a bit too close but appearing genuinely interested. “Did you make Ori’s sweaters?”

Dori nodded. “He’s always been cold-natured.” He knew he sounded the fond mother (Nori teased him over it often enough, as if he had any room to speak), but he didn’t care. Ori had been a child when their parents died. If he was to be a brother and a mother, so be it. 

Fíli glanced across at Ori, snugly wrapped in a dark purple sweater over his button-up shirt and sweater-vest, then down at his own shirtless vest and jeans which, Dori’s discerning and overprotective eyes had noticed, came complete with goose pimples up and down Fíli’s bare arms. The violinist chuckled. “I can see that.” He rubbed a bit at his own arms with a wry grin. “But it does get cold in here.” His eyes crinkled a bit at the edges as he said, “He’s lucky to have you watching out for him. And we’re all happy to have you here watching over us too, Dori.” He gave a little old-fashioned bow before turning and walking away.

Dori watched him go with an unfamiliar warmth blossoming in his chest.

Dori presented the sweater to him two weeks later (off-white and comfortable, with no consideration of the lad’s tendency toward leather and piercings), with a stern look and a, “You’re shivering in your own studio,” that made Ori roll his eyes and smile at the same time.

Fili grinned and pulled it on, exclaiming over the excellent and extremely soft yarn Dori had chosen. Within a week, the sweater was an established part of his work wardrobe.

Seeing Fíli gathering the band around him while properly warm, Dori suspected that Ori just might be right about Fíli: he was already shaping into a great leader, a dwarf of drive and vision. But ah, so much pressure to carry on such young shoulders. He would have to learn to let go sometimes, to lean on others, let them take some of his burden.

A lesson Dori was still trying to learn, one Nori fussed at him about on a semi-regular basis.  
Kíli walked in then, tapped a cold beer on his brother’s shoulder as the violinist whacked the table for emphasis. “Stop beating up the furniture,” he said with a grin, and leaned around him to set a tray of snacks on the table.  
Dori smiled to himself.  
It appeared Fíli learned fast.  
\-----

Fíli strolled into their apartment, still talking, his hands flying through the air as he flitted from one concept to another – from this rhythm to that arrangement, this lyric to that solo - his eyes sparking as he moved with restless energy. By all appearances, he was completely unaware of anything outside his head – but he saw, from the corner of his eyes, as Kíli paused momentarily in the doorway, making sure to turn the lock.

Fíli smirked to himself and held his arm as if he was cradling his violin, lifting and playing in the air. His brother lingered by the door, watching avidly as the soft material of his sweater slid up and down with the movement of his arms, revealing tantalizing glimpses of skin between the bottom hem of the sleek gray vest Fíli had worn that day and the top of his worn, low-slung jeans. 

Kíli growled under his breath.

Sometimes, playing Kíli felt like playing his violin, and just as satisfying: delicate touches bringing forth rich results.

Fíli tilted his head, and then turned, his mouth curving into a smirk. “Something on your mind?” he asked, tipping his chin back just enough to be a challenge and an invitation all in one.

Kíli had been watching him all day. It was hardly the reaction he’d expected to his wearing the sweater Dori had made for him; he loved the thing, it was warm and quite definitely the most comfortable thing he’d worn in his life, but it wasn’t exactly his style. If anything, it looked like something made for a grandfatherly sort of Hobbit. Hardly sexy.

And yet Kíli couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away.

They’d been so engrossed in their latest composition that he’d actually missed Kili’s heightened interest for two days before realizing that Kíli was staring at his ass even more than usual. It took a bit of careful study to form the theory that Kíli’s interest was born of how often Fíli’s assets were hidden by the cut of the sweater – usually, his vests and slacks didn’t leave so much to the imagination. 

Kíli had been staring all day. He wouldn’t last much longer.

Fíli was looking forward immensely to Kíli losing control and-

Kíli pounced, lips vibrating with the sound of Fíli’s laugh. “You do this on _purpose_!” he accused, licking his way in, sucking and nibbling on Fíli’s lip as he pressed him backward toward the bed. 

“My job?” Fíli asked, eyebrows up, even as he slid his hands in the sides of Kíli’s jeans and dug his nails into Kíli’s hips, just a bit. Kíli moaned against his mouth, a sweet, involuntary melody, always so responsive to pinpricks of pain. “I do that on purpose, yes.”

“No. Just. Being all-” Kíli waved a hand, rolled his eyes, and then reached for the lapels of the ridiculous sweater. Kíli’s fingertips were callused but the material delicate and soft; the difference in texture sent shivers along Fíli’s arms as Kíli bared them. “Been wanting to get this off all day,” he muttered, pushing at it, sliding it over smooth skin and hard muscle as he slid his thigh between Fíli’s legs and _pressed_ (Fíli in the gym every morning, slick with sweat and $200 earbuds tucked in as he lost himself in movement and music, all so his baby brother could grab his arms and lick his stomach and bite down on strong shoulders as the sweater knotted and tangled at Fíli’s elbows). 

Tangled and held.

“Kíli,” Fíli said as Kíli licked along the line of his throat, stubble rough and arousing against his skin. The muscles in Fíli’s shoulders shifted and pulled, but his hands were twisted behind him and he couldn’t twist the right way to get them off. 

The sudden realization that he was trapped made his mind, always full of notes, of melodies and harmonies, crescendos and tempos, of plots and plans for bringing Heirs of Durin into the public eye, go suddenly, blessedly _still._

He twisted his hands, pulled the material a bit tighter instead of trying to push it off.

And _felt_ his cock thicken and press against the zipper of his jeans.

“Oh,” he whispered as the world lost focus for a moment.

Kíli’s hands were at his stomach, slipping the buttons of his vest free and petting the shape of muscle on his stomach. “No one should look as good as you do wearing that,” he muttered as Fíli’s knees hit the edge of the bed without buckling. He straightened and pushed the vest of Fíli’s shoulders, leaning in for a quick nip at the curve of neck to torso. When his hands caught he lifted his head and chuckled. “Sorry, here, I’ll help you get out of-”

“Leave it.”

Fíli’s voice came out low and rough, no music, just lust, just need. His lips parted in little pants as Kíli frowned and met his gaze. “Fíli?”

“Leave it,” Fíli said again, and his hips were moving against Kíli’s leg because, Mahal, he could come from this, he hadn’t been so close so fast since that first day against his parents’ doorway. “ _Kíli_.” 

He saw the moment realization hit his brother, as the dark eyes flickered from his face and down his arms, where his trapped wrists disappeared behind him. Kíli licked his lips as his pupils blew. “You…”

“It doesn’t hurt,” Fíli said, and oh, maybe a little, maybe in the pull of his shoulders or the angle of his wrist but it was – he couldn’t – “Leave it.”

Kíli’s eyes stayed on his as he pressed his hands – long, sensual fingers – against Fíli’s stomach and pushed.

Fíli fell back on the bed, as he had a dozen times, but it was different because he didn’t _catch_ himself; he fell, landed on his hands all wrapped in the cloudy softness of wool and the tight, slick silk of his vest. There was a pull in his shoulders, not painful just _present_ , and he had to plant his hands to wiggle back onto the bed. 

Kíli watched him, and Fíli watched the hitch in his brother’s breath as Kíli grabbed both his shirts and pulled them off at once. 

Part of Fíli wanted to reach out and touch, run his hands through dark curls and fair skin, pull Kíli down, rip his clothes off, take control as he always did, always under pressure, always pushing, every moment another decision -

But he couldn’t.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he groaned, and his hips thrust into empty air as his eyes fell shut.

Kíli was on him then, hands at his waist, trembling slightly against the sensitive skin of his stomach as his brother unsnapped his jeans, pulled them off along with his underwear, slid them over his feet and tossed them. “Fíli,” he said, and his voice was shaking too.

Fíli forced his eyes open as the bed tipped, as Kíli leaned over him without touching him. He still had on his jeans and boots, half dressed with Fíli sprawled nude on their bed, his cock hard and flushed between them. 

“You tell me if you change your mind,” Kíli said, and one hand traced gentle fingers down Fíli’s arm, from shoulder to elbow, stopping when it curved behind his back. 

Fíli bit his lip, needing the flash of pain for a moment, shifting against his bound hands. “I-” he swallowed, his eyes fluttered shut a moment, but he forced them open. “I will. But I don’t know how long I’ll last anyway.” It was meant as a joke but it came out on little pants of air. 

Kíli watched him for a moment, touched his jaw once, and then slid down and took Fíli’s erection into his mouth.

Fili thrust up without meaning to, giving out a cry he’d never heard before – low and guttural, tinged with something like desperation. Kíli coughed, wrapped one hand around the base of his erection and rested the other on his thigh. Every touch felt magnified, slick, wet heat and then, Mahal, Kíli started to _suck_ , tongue lashing and-

-And Fíli pushed against his hands, felt the burn in his shoulders like hours with his violin, and he’d never taken without giving but this was-

The hand on his thigh shifted, trailed against his skin in sparks of unexpected pleasure, slid below to press and tease at the perineum, pressing, and those hands and that mouth were all he thought of, the sum total of his existence for seconds and minutes.

Fíli shouted his brother’s name, arched and pushed, and everything in that moment was sex and pleasure, Kíli and heat and the pull in his arms, he couldn’t _move_ he couldn’t-

He forced his eyes open and looked. 

Kíli’s eyes flicked up toward him as his lips slid up, dark brows and unfocused eyes and Fíli opened his mouth to warn him to-

He came before he could say the words, hot pulses that shuddered through his cock and over Kíli’s tongue, white at the edges of his brother’s lips as Kíli pulled off, bursts over Kíli’s chin and shoulders.

Fíli felt his eyes roll back, felt his body shudder up his chest, down his arms, shivering through his bound wrists. 

He didn’t lose consciousness, but he was – he felt – 

When he opened bleary eyes, he found Kíli’s face hovering over him, felt Kíli’s hand cradling his jaw. “Fíli? Fíli, are you okay?”

“Yes.” Fili wet his lips, shifted. “Yes, I’m…I’m better than okay.” He didn’t know how to explain it. He felt-

Quiet.

For a moment, there was some strange mixture of emotions on Kíli’s face – guilt? Concern? But it melted away into a slow smile as he leaned down and kissed Fíli, tongue bitter salt and warm affection. “I’m going to get you loose now,” he murmured, and Fíli nodded, shifted a bit as Kíli reached behind him and half-raised him so his eyes were pressed to Kíli’s shoulder.

Kíli was quick but infinitely gentle, sliding the material off, stroking his wrists as he brought them around front. There weren’t any marks, not even any tingling, just a pleasant ache up his arms and across his shoulders. “All right?” he murmured again, something strange in his voice that Fíli couldn’t pick apart right now. 

“Mmm, very,” Fíli agreed, and Kíli laughed against his temple. It took Fíli several breaths-finally slowing – to lift his head. “Oh! You-”

“I’m fine.” Kíli kissed him, slow and thorough, then lay down and stretched out alongside him. 

Fíli turned, curved into Kíli’s longer body as he usually wouldn’t (too proud, too _older brother_ , too _in control_ ), and let his eyes fall shut. He fell asleep to the gentle melody of Kíli’s breaths, the harmony of Kíli’s heart.


	22. Bound in Strips of Leather and Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fíli spoke with his hands and his body and his violin, and rarely put anything into words.
> 
> At least, not until they’d been together for almost five years, and were deep in work on their first album, every day long and stressful, with Fíli taking the bulk of it on his own shoulders.

Kíli demanded in bed. Not when he was in Fíli, but when Fíli was in him – he growled and ordered and rocked his hips for more. He loved nails and teeth, flashes of pain that soothed away into pleasure, bruises on his hips and thighs and the sweet ache the day after Fíli rode him hard, slaps of skin and relentless thrusts against his prostate. And Fíli gave him what he wanted, what he begged for by commanding, with grins and moans and clever fingers and teeth.

Fíli was more of a mystery to Kíli. He’d researched everything before that first glorious week together (and sometimes Kíli liked to imagine him, expression serious and body hardening as he imagined doing all those things with KiliI). He made sure they were safe and happy, bought any supplies they needed. He watched Kíli, and teased him, could be overprotective and gentle or mischievous and fierce. Fíli led and Fíli gave, in bed and outside it. Kíli knew Fíli loved him as deeply as he loved Fíli, and he knew Fíli enjoyed their sex life (felt it in Fíli’s skin and breathed it from Fíli’s lips), but Fíli never asked for anything. 

Fíli spoke with his hands and his body and his violin, and rarely put anything into words.

At least, not until they’d been together for almost five years, and were deep in work on their first album, every day long and stressful, with Fíli taking the bulk of it on his own shoulders.

He asked after an especially difficult day trying to orchestrate a tricky piece of music. Nerves had worn down and flared to the point that Dwalin and Bofur were in each other’s faces, snarling and unreasonable until Fíli stepped in and broke the older dwarves up. Bilbo had thrown in, dragging his glaring spouse to the side to calm him while Ori, who had agreed with Dwalin on the orchestration, hovered protectively around their huge cousin, adding his own angry looks to the whole mess. Kíli’d called an end to the day’s work, and everyone had more or less stomped out of the room.

Very mature, Kíli thought.

The brothers returned home tired but much too keyed up to sleep, and Kíli nearly winced when they kicked off their boots and pulled off their shirts: Fíli’s back was a column of muscle so tight that Kíli could see it bunched along his brother’s spine.

“You need a massage,” Kíli said, pushing Fíli’s thick hair to the side to lay a hand at the base of his neck. Worry, creation, and responsibility lay in a band of tight muscle across the strong shoulders. “Lay down and I’ll give you one.” Kíli had studied dozens of things over the years, but the only one he’d followed through to a certificate was massage. He enjoyed the power to make someone relax under the movement of his hands – especially when that someone was Fíli. 

Usually, Fíli would grin cheekily and sprawl on the bed, waving a hand in mock-command that Kíli get to work. This time, he didn’t. Instead, Fili turned his head and watched him for a long moment, long enough that Kíli wasn’t sure whether to squirm or laugh, so he settled for raising his eyebrows questioningly. 

Fíli smiled at him, a new smile, unfamiliar. This wasn’t his slightly arrogant, teasing, occasionally infuriating little grin, but a slow, small smile, somehow shy. His eyes narrowed, the shadows beneath deepening, and one dimple flashed in the curve of the deep blue stone, even as the edges of his mouth trembled a bit with nerves.

Something in Kíli’s chest fluttered at the gentle beauty of it, even as his throat tightened with a sudden, nameless fear at nervousness in his confident lover. 

“Wait here,” Fíli said, his voice low and – was it trembling as well? _Vibrato_ where there should be none, and Fíli turned and padded out of their bedroom on bare feet.

Kíli waited, fingers tapping nervous rhythms on his knees (knew the quality of his knee and thigh, cold fingertips and twitching wrists playing his sudden nerves into his skin).

When Fíli came back, he held something in his hands, a flush across his cheeks as bits of leather peeked through his enclosed fingers. He came to a stop in front of Kíli and said, without quite looking him in the eye, “Do you remember…” his voice caught as it never caught, “the other night when…my hands got tangled?” 

Kíli remembered. 

He remembered Fíli’s cock, hot and heavy against his tongue, the broken pants for the air, the way Fíli’s eyes blew large and dark, aftershocks and Fíli’s voice: _I don’t think I’ll last long._

He remembered flashes of guilt afterward, that he’d liked it so much: Fíli falling apart under his fingers and shivering against him afterward. The way Fíli had curled into him, as if he….needed it.

He dreamed sometimes, of that moment, and woke up hard and guilty.

He could have said all of this: _I remember, you were beautiful, I’m so sorry_ , but he didn’t. He only bit his lip and nodded acknowledgement.

Fíli’s eyes crinkled a bit at the corners, and Kíli felt himself relax a little as his brother circled around to sit beside him, his slightly greater weight making Kíli slide a touch closer along the soft cotton sheets. “Right. Well.” He swallowed, a flash along the line of his throat. “I did some research, and . . .” he unfurled his fingers, and Kíli’s heart started beating out a crazed rhythm, staccato beats, “I want to try these.”

In Fíli’s hands were a pair of leather cuffs, softly lined, joined together with interconnected rings of silver metal. 

Kíli stared.

“I want you,” Fíli’s voice sounded strangely far away, a melody over the pounding rhythm in Kíli’s ears, “I want you to put them on me.” He shifted, and pressed the cuffs into Kíli’s shocked hands, which were loose in his lap. “Please.”

Kíli closed his fingers around the leather automatically, feeling his lips part and a few panted little breaths – guilt and instant arousal all at once – as he dragged his eyes upward. 

Fíli’s eyes, Durin blue, met his steadily.

“You want me to tie you up?” Kíli asked, his voice dipping lower than he expected, a rumble in his chest.

Fíli’s gaze flickered over his face, searching. “Just the cuffs,” he said. “They’re safe. They’re lined and loose enough there won’t be problems with circulation.”

“Will . . . can you break the links, if you change your mind?”

“No. I knew I’d – I know I’ll pull too hard.” Fíli’s eyes darkened, and Kíli wanted to kiss him – kiss him and slide the cuffs on; kiss him and throw them away. “I’m sure, Kíli. I want this.” He swallowed again, his eyes fluttering shut a moment as his lips parted. “I need this,” he whispered, a confession and a question all at once, because Fíli would not take something he needed, not unless Kíli wanted to give it.

Kili tightened his grip, the leather creaking momentarily under the pressure. Then he nodded.

Fíli’s smile was warm and relieved as he leaned in and kissed him, slow and deep, exploring Kíli’s mouth as if it was that first long week again and everything was new. Kíli leaned into it, following Fíli’s lead (always, always, knowing Fíli would take care of them both), almost forgetting the leather in his hands as he nibbled happily at Fíli’s mouth.

He pulled away, pleasantly aroused and smugly pleased by the gentle swelling of Fíli’s bottom lip. Fíli flashed a bit of his usual grin at Kíli’s pleased expression before he scooted back, just a bit, and lifted his hands.

Kíli’s brother presented his wrists, pale inner skin facing up, smallest fingers pressed together, in something like supplication. Fíli was so fair that Kíli could see the subtle tracings of blue under the skin, infinitely delicate. He’d never thought of Fíli’s wrists as anything but strong before, but now-

He closed the leather around them, one and then the other. His hands were steady (years of training, a lifetime of keys and drumsticks, every movement deliberate), but his breath shivered between his lips as he slowly slid the buckles into place. 

“Is this..?” 

Fíli twisted his wrists, the leather moving just slightly, creaking softly. “Yes.”

Fíli raised his gaze and studied Kíli, lips parted, and then shifted to lie back deliberately on the bed.

Kíli’s breath disappeared entirely at the sight.

“Do you . . .” Kíli moved, needing to touch, needing to feel, tucking his knees against Fíli’s thighs, warm skin against his groin. He hadn’t researched any of this. He’d . . . thought about it, more than once, curled around Fíli at night, aroused and ashamed. But researching it would have meant seriously considering following through, and he couldn’t do that. He only knew bits and pieces, overheard here and there or watched in less than educational videos during those long years when Fíli had been away at school. “Do you want a safe word? In case you change your mind?”

Fíli hummed under his breath, parting his wrists the two inches they would go and tugging against the links. The metal clicked and the leather creaked in erotic harmony over Fíli’s quickening breaths. “I don’t think I need one. This is just…it’s just cuffs. And I trust you.”

“But . . .”

Fíli shook his head minutely, even as his hips shifted, searching instinctively for friction, but Kíli was too far back, straddling his thighs. His eyes met Kíli’s, understanding and suddenly familiar and protective again. “Do you want me to have one?”

Kíli shivered, traced trembling fingers over the leather on his brother’s right wrist. “Yes,” he whispered.

Fíli raised his hands, brushed the backs of his fingers against Kíli’s jaw. “All right,” he murmured, then mischief, bright and familiar, quirked at the edges of his lips. “We’ll make it ‘elves.’”

Despite himself, Kíli barked a laugh. “That’ll kill the entire mood!”

“Which is the point,” Fíli agreed with a grin, and Kíli had to lean in and kiss him. 

When he pulled away, he watched as his brother – his confident, handsome Fíli – lifted his bound hands over his head, hips arching. Fíli watched him, concern and lust clear in his gaze, and trust.

Absolute trust that Kíli would-

“I want you inside me,” Fíli said, and there was the delicate flush again, across his cheeks where his dimples were currently hiding behind spheres of stone . “Like this.”

Kíli moaned.

\---

Kíli fell in love all over again.

He fell in love with Fíli’s mouth, his tongue, slow kisses. He fell in love with Fíli’s shoulders, his chest, the sensitive line of his neck, the little gasp when he bit at a nipple. He fell in love with his stomach, the trail of golden curls and the twitch of hard muscle. He fell in love with every sigh and moan, every involuntary gasp of his own name from his brother’s lips. He fell in love as he felt Fíli’s body slowly relax beneath him, tight muscles releasing, his hips, his thighs, as he watched the flex of muscles in Fíli’s shoulders as Fíli pulled hard at the cuffs and groaned low in his chest. 

“Fíli,” overwhelmed, that he could have this, that he could _give_. “Is this-” _how you feel, who you are?_ Please,” and Fíli had never begged for anything in bed before.

Kíli shuddered on a swell of possessive tenderness and an accompanying sense of power that felt discordant in his belly but sparked in his groin.

When he slid inside – a steady stroke, knees under Fíli’s ass and Fíli’s thighs tight against his hips – his heart pounded _lust_ and _adoration_ and _mine_ , and Fíli arched into it, pushing against the headboard and pulling against the bonds and so hard it looked almost painful. “Are you-”

“Yes,” and there was a growl under Fíli’s voice that made Kíli’s hips stutter and thrust. “Mahal, yes, baby, you don’t know-please, just-” His eyes met Kíli’s pleased and dark, lips swollen, hair a mess around the hands bound above his head in strips of leather and trust.

Kíli’s gaze flickered up to those wrists, twisted together, and he reached out, grabbed the links and pressed them down, tangles of slick honeyed curls catching around his fingers, clinging to callouses, and now Fíli was truly pinned by Kíli’s hands and Kíli’s weight and Kíli’s cock.

Fíli-

Fíli shoved down, a low sound in his chest, hips grinding, sweat on his arms as the rings sang in Kíli’s palm. A shout: “Now!” a crack in the air and Kíli thrust deep, ground his hips (couldn’t pull away, had to hold on, eyes on Fíli’s flushed face, fluttering lashes). 

“Fuck,” breathless and a chorus of _yes yes yes Kíli please please_ and Fíli, Fíli-

“Fíli,” Kíli breathed, so close – hot and tight and there, tangled together and inseparable and it was too much. He knew the angle, felt the shudder that tore through Fíli’s body when he found it, as he pushed forward and ground his hips again and again until Fíli was _writhing_ beneath him and taking it, taking it.

“Fíli,” he gasped, and it was arousing and perfect and _powerful_ and-

-his hand slid off, palm stinging- 

-guilty, did Fíli want this, did he-

“Yes,” Fíli breathed, like an answer, and he twisted his torso to lift his hands, linking them behind Kíli’s head and pulling him down, kissing him. “Yes, don’t stop.”

Fíli came with his hands gripping the metal links behind Kíli’s head, Kíli’s hand around his erection, Kíli’s cock deep inside him. He shuddered and arched and shouted, his eyes wide, and Kíli had never seen anything more gorgeous than Fíli truly, truly falling apart beneath and around Kíli’s body.

He started to pull out – Fíli usually preferred that – but fingers and leather and metal tangled in Kíli’s hair, and Fíli murmured, “No, stay, you’re so close baby, I feel it.”

And he was, he was, two thrusts and it was over, tears pricking at his eyes as he came inside Fíli and above Fíli and surrounded by Fíli.

\----

Fíli watched with sleepy, sated eyes (usually up and out of bed, fetching cloths or changing sheets, but now just watching, following) as Kíli tenderly unbuckled the cuffs and slid them off, pressing a kiss to first one wrist, and then the other. They were slightly pink, but Fíli wiggled the fingers obediently when Kíli asked. The soft inner lining had done its work well.

“I liked it,” Kíli whispered, as he wrapped his arms around Fíli and pulled him close.

“I’m glad,” just as quiet, a breath against his hair as Kíli buried his eyes in Fíli’s shoulder.

“It’s okay? It’s okay I like it?”

“Oh baby,” a kiss against his temple, fingertips along his spine. “Is it okay I want it?”

Kíli didn’t answer immediately. He breathed in Fíli’s mint shampoo, hints of sweat and the bitter tang of come that slicked between their bellies. He didn’t understand it, not entirely, what it did for Fíli. But he could see – some of it. Could see it in Fíli’s eyes, feel it in his fingertips, watch it when he came. It was something to do with release, with letting go, with trust, with words never spoken but written in their skin (those delicate veins of Fíli’s wrists). “Yes,” he said, tightening his arms. He thought about how much he loved the feel of Fíli’s nails in his skin and the lingering ache after Fíli took him hard; remembered Fíli’s hesitance when he first demanded _harder, harder, fuck yes._ “Yes, it’s okay.” A beat, and then: “It’s beautiful,” because it was, though the word couldn’t convey everything he meant.

Fíli laughed, gentle rhythms under Kíli’s fingertips, and tugged his hair to kiss him.


	23. As Long As It's Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Consensual use of sex toys. There was meant to be a non-FiKi chapter in-between but, well. Ahem. It's been a long writer's block._

Many couples agree to never hold anything said in the midst of sex against each other, in the interest of familial peace and harmony. Fíli and Kíli had no such agreement. Kíli might have asked for such a deal, if he had any real idea of how much he talked – his voice low and rough and wanting – when he grew ever closer to release. But he fancied himself, all in all, rather quiet in bed, so the subject never came up.

But Kíli wasn’t quiet at all.

And Fíli had an excellent memory.

Even buried in his little brother's body, watching Kíli take what he wanted - undulating hips, thick muscles across his stomach as he rose and fell and cursed on Fíli's cock- even then Fíli watched and listened and remembered.

Kíli's voice: "Fuck!"

Fíli's low chuckle because, "Yes, baby, I am," but then Kíli, his eyes wild, his voice a growl:

"Wish I could fuck you-yes, Fíli-!" A twist, Kíli's erection thick and twitching in Fíli's grasp. "Just- just inside and you- you inside me just-"

Hot and good and perfect, and Fíli wouldn’t hold out too much longer but neither would Kíli. "Two of me?" Fíli purred, laughing, "That's what you want?"

Kíli shouted, head back, curls of hair slicked to his skin by sweat, and his orgasm came out as _fuck yes yes yes yes_!

He always came like a demand and a plea all rolled into one, and Fíli could only obey and give until he’d wrung Kíli dry.

When it was over, the two of them cleaned up and curled together in bed, Kíli snuggled his way to a blissful, forgetful sleep.

But Fíli remembered every word from Kíli's wonderful, sinful mouth.

\----

The package arrived more than a month later, its contents carefully researched and specially ordered. If Fíli's grin was a bit devilish as the mail carrier handed it over, Kíli wasn't there to see it.

He did, however, come home to a dark house, a crackling fire in the bedroom, and his lover seated among the pillows, soft old jeans slung low on his hips and greeting him with the sort of slow smile that promised a very pleasant evening.

\----

Fíli knew exactly what his lover was feeling. He could see it in the catch of Kíli's breath, the way the dark eyes flickered over Fíli’s bare chest, following the tail of messy gold down until it disappeared between the open button of his jeans.

Fíli smiled, slow and pleased.

Kíli's voice was low, hardened with a hint of gravel, when he asked, "Fíli?" as if the name alone would explain everything.

"I have something for you." Fíli shifted, lifted one hand and curled a finger at his brother - something Kíli had detested when they were children, but this time it made him move instantly.

"For me?" Bright eyes and curiosity, even as Fíli could see the first hints of Kíli's cock rising to press against the hard metal of his fly.

"Mm-hmm," all a purr of sound, and Kíli slid onto the bed.

Fíli caught him, tangled his hand in the day's t-shirt, a mostly-forgotten band from twenty years earlier, all skulls and blood, and pulled hard, sending him sprawling across the fresh sheets.

“Fí-!” Kíli yelped, but Fíli only laughed and flipped him over, watching Kíli's chest rise and his eyes widen.

Kíli was taller, but Fíli was stronger, and Kíli loved it.

It was the work of a moment to straddle Kíli's thighs, feel the heat and hardness there, rock just once, twice-

“ _Fíli_!” and Fíli did love the sound of his name on those lips, just like that.

He leaned down and kissed him, soft against Kíli's bottom lip, utterly at odds with the hard press of his body pinning Kíli down.

"Welcome home."

It had been years now, but Fíli still loved saying it, loved seeing Kíli’s bright, pleased reaction.

Kíli grinned. It was one of the wild ones, something feral at the edges of his mouth and the narrowing of his eyes.

"What'd you get me?"

Fíli kissed him again, slowly, holding his hips still and tasting hints of coffee and mocha. Always a little selfish, his Kíli, but with kindness all mixed in. "Something to help with a little fantasy of yours."

Kíli turned bright red.

A rare sight indeed.

"I don't," his voice cracked a bit, "I don't know what you're talking about, I mean, I don't need fantasies, I have you-!"

"Mmm," Fíli agreed, trailing his hands down Kíli's arms and catching his wrists to hold him nice and still. "But only the one, not a pair."

The blush got darker, right across his nose and up his ears. It was adorable. "You remember that?"

Fíli smiled, gently this time, and kissed the flush on Kíli’s nose. "Oh, baby," he said honestly, "I remember just about everything you say."

Kíli opened his mouth, but Fíli kissed him, tasted the words on his tongue – _don’t call me baby_ – and replaced them with-

“There’s nothing wrong with fantasies. You can share them with me whenever you want...well." He shifted up. "As long as no one else is involved. I don't want to know about any fantasies you have about, say, Legolas."

Kíli choked out a noise of shocked disgust that made Fíli chuckle. Even Gimli didn’t seem to understand what made Legolas attractive, and he was clearly in love with the elf.

"Cloning didn't seem a viable option, and I figured I'd want to strangle anyone who touched you, even if it was another me, so I did a little research and shopping instead."

Kíli relaxed in his hold, utterly trusting, if still pink. "And?"

Fíli grinned. "That's where your present comes in."

He straightened up with one last kiss and a press of Kíli's wrists against the bed. Kíli was flushed and messy and terribly over-dressed, but Fíli was-

-more nervous than he could let on.

Always, always, it was Fíli who kept them focused and kept them safe. Kíli trusted him, so he had to seem certain, had to seem calm, couldn’t seem like just the thought of what he was about to do made him want to climax hot and messy and wild.

Fíli took a slow breath.

He hadn't wrapped it or anything, just pulled it out of the box and tested it as well as he could to make sure Kíli would be comfortable (not an easy thing to do given Kíli's nonexistent life schedule). He lifted the small device out gently.

"It's a vibrator," he said, watching Kíli's eyebrows go up. Kíli was not shy about trying out a couple of vibrators while Fíli was away at school, or when Fíli had to go somewhere for the record company, but those had been more designed for women than the device Fíli was holding. This was dwarven-made, sleek and beautiful, curved to find the prostate. Fíli slid his thumb along the surface, etched in geometric designs that made it look heavy and thick in his hand.

"I want to put it in you," his voice dipped down, "it's designed to vibrate against your prostate, and it has a remote," he lifted his hand, and grinned wolfishly, "that I get to control."

Fíli watched, narrow-eyed and pleased, as Kíli’s throat moved and his eyes flickered from the small remote in Fíli’s right hand to the silver device in his left. 

A flicker of tongue against his lips and Kíli murmured, “What about you?”

Fíli fought the urge to grin, instead keeping his eyes heavy and his mouth just curved – he knew what that look did to Kíli, to a fair number of people, knew how to play it if needed. He tightened his thighs and rocked, just so. “Oh, I’ll be taking care of myself too. After all, you want to give and receive at the same time, I think.”

Hands grabbed Fíli’s thighs, nails biting into denim, and Kíli’s groan echoed through his groin, a low thrum of music and lust.

Clothes were simply dealt with, stripped off with practiced hands that didn’t tease this time, only slid off and tossed, Fíli’s rough fingertips spreading his brother’s thighs, sliding and catching on dark hair. The vibrator was cool to the touch, but warmed quickly against Kíli’s skin, slick and pressing against him. 

Fíli had chosen the size carefully, wondered if-

“ _Fuck_ ,” Kíli breathed, and lifted his hips as Fíli, with utmost care, slowly slid the vibrator into place. It had to burn just a little, just enough for Kíli to bite his lip and let out a little whimper that sounded like _more_.

“Beautiful,” Fíli breathed, but more like, “breathtaking,” Kíli spread out on their sheets, his hair a tangle around his eyes, flushed and hard. 

Fíli fumbled a bit for the remote, unable to tear his eyes away, but Kíli suddenly moved – sharp and graceful as he was, a hand tight around Fíli’s wrist. He met Fíli’s gaze, dark eyes blown almost black, and purred, “No, you first.”

That earned a low laugh, a kiss and bite to one pale thigh as Kíli brought his legs together – groaned softly, bit his lip as the vibrator shifted and pressed – and Fíli moved up to straddle his waist. Clever fingers traced down, slid a bit through lubricant already in place.

Kíli grinned.

“Did you-?”

Fíli’s smile was a teasing, dark little thing. “Of course,” he answered and shifted, wrapped a hand around Kíli’s length. “I know you’re impatient.”

“I’m no-”

Fíli shoved down, one hard push that buried Kíli deep in his body, hot stretch and more than the awkward angle of his fingers, but so good because Kíli _shouted_ and grabbed for him, bucking up automatically to drive deeper still. 

Teeth bit sharply into Fíli’s lip – a little too much, definitely too fast, but yes, Kíli’s hands were trembling on his thighs and Kíli’s eyes had gone wild.

He rolled his hips, luxuriated in the stretch, shivered as his body shifted to the well-loved angle and a spark of pleasure danced up his spine. 

Kíli always felt perfect. Hot and hard, his brother’s pleasure in his body. 

But this wasn’t about Fíli.

He leaned forward, pressed a kiss to Kíli’s panting mouth.

“Ready?” he asked, something gentle in his voice.

Kíli groaned, panted. “I-” A little laugh. “It’s already – Mahal. I’m not sure I can be ready.” But there was excitement there, and anticipation, and Fíli felt the shift in his muscles as he tightened around the vibrator. “Yeah. Yeah. Fíli. Please.”

Fíli licked his lips. “Close your eyes.”

Kíli did.

Kíli just-

Fíli’s voice came out low and rough, not what he’d imagined in the shower that morning, hand around his cock to stop any release into the hot spray. “This is me, Kíli,” he ground out. 

“Fíli-”

“Your cock in my body, hot and hard and wanting-” he rode Kíli’s instinctive thrust, ground down against it-

-and flicked his thumb against metal and plastic, setting off the softest of hums.

Kíli twisted so hard, shuddering down the entire length of his body, that Fíli had to grab on with his free hand lest he be tossed to the floor.

“Mahal,” Kíli swore, his voice like a prayer. “Oh my god.”

Fíli moved.

His thighs tightened and released, the muscles of his stomach clenching as he lifted himself up and drove himself down – didn’t often take this position, though Kíli loved it, and he could see why, finding his angle and taking it greedily, grinding against Kíli’s erection as his thumb moved over the control, set up a steady pulse he could feel in the hitches of Kíli’s breath and the way his brother’s hips began to move almost – almost cautiously in rhythm.

A hand on Kíli’s shoulder, a little twist to the side, Kíli’s hands on his waist. “Is it good?”

A shudder, all through that beautiful dark body beneath him. “Fí,” Kíli whimpered, and thrust up hard.

“I wish it was me,” Fíli whispered, and Kíli twisted, groaned, clenched his eyes shut and tightened around the vibrator. “All hot and perfect around me. And you begging for more-“ A minute adjustment, and then a steady thrum that made Kíli nearly _scream_ and he shoved up, pounded Fíli’s prostate and sent pleasure spiking along Fíli’s nerves.

Fíli, always so careful to watch and protect, ground down and gave himself over to the steady impact of his Kíli inside his body.

Control.

Every movement of Fíli’s thighs, every twist of his torso changed the angle and the quality of pleasure. Sweat slicked where their skin met, and he wasn’t even touching himself but he was so hard, sensitive skin dragging along dark hair and catching-

And Kíli, Kíli, groaning and almost thrashing beneath him, utterly overwhelmed. 

“Fíli-“

So tempting, to wrap a hand around himself, to stroke to completion, but then Kíli, so thick and hot and perfect and-

“Fíli-please-it’s-“

Kíli’s voice.

Fíli shivered, opened his eyes without realizing he’d closed them.

Kíli’s hips were moving in steady, rolling shivers, and he’d let go of Fíli’s thighs to grab at the sheets. His voice, usually deep and rough, was a whimper.

“ _Please_. It’s-Fíli-“

 _Too much_ , Fíli realized, a flash of guilt and he fumbled at the remote, eyes unfocused as his body begged for release. He rolled the switch with his thumb, dimly wondering how long he’d left it on a steady, unwavering hum.

Kíli’s shoulders relaxed, he arched his back, but then his eyes snapped open. “Not off,” he ordered, and there was no way he was properly seeing Fíli, his eyes so wide and dark, his lips red from biting back shouts, hair slicked to his cheeks and forehead. “Just-just-”

Fíli made himself stop, held himself still. “The pulse?”

“Yes.” A smile, wild, a flash of teeth. “Yeah, the pulse. Please.”

Fíli touched the flushed cheek. “You’re sure?”

Kíli tilted his head, nipped at the fingertips. “Yeah. Yeah. It’s good.” A little catch of a laugh. “ _So good_ Fíli, just-“

They weren’t going to last.

Fíli carefully set the remote to a low pulse, watching as Kíli’s body managed to simultaneously relax through the shoulders and tense up through the groin. 

“Yes,” Kíli breathed, and then his hands, sliding up Fíli’s thighs again as his hips started to move.

Kíli came first, but oh, it was a close thing.

He finished on a shout, something that bordered a scream, incoherent and broken as his rhythm utterly dissolved into wild thrusts upward and grinds down. Some part of Fíli told him to turn the vibrator down, it wouldn’t feel good once his brother climaxed, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t, he just-

Curved downward and barely touched himself with his free hand before he came over Kíli’s shivering stomach, tangled in dark hair and panting breaths.

White on dark, and Kíli shivering beneath him as he shuddered and moaned.

Kíli’s hand tangled with his around the remote, a press to turn it completely off as slowly dark and blue eyes focused, taking in flushed skin and parted lips that curved into slow smiles. 

The kiss was awkward, but necessary, Kíli’s hands tangling in Fíli’s hair as Fíli leaned down, lips and tongues and teeth and little murmurs of senseless words, _good_ and _love_ and _hot_ and _yeah_.

Every movement turned gentle after that – Fíli lifting off Kíli’s body, sliding his hands down, removing the vibrator as if Kíli was made a glass – kissing his brother’s temple as Kíli let out a little hiss and rolled his hips. “All right?”

A grin. “Way better than all right,” he assured Fíli, catching his free hand and kissing his wrist.

They ended up in the tub, tangled together, low voices and caressing hands, assurances and shivers and soft laughter. They were too tired for anything more than a few teasing gropes, the slow slide of water and soap as they cleaned each other up. But Fíli asked and Kíli assured, and there were kisses and whispers and when they piled into bed – Kíli curling against him, trying as he often did to be smaller than he was – Kíli grinned sleepily into his brother’s shoulder and said, “My birthday’s coming, you know.”

Fíli laughed, and pinched Kíli’s hip, and started murmuring about some other items that had come up in his recent research as his Kíli went soft and heavy in Fíli’s arms.


	24. Perfect in This Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't love, but she didn't need it to be.
> 
> (Didn't want it to be?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This chapter contains a threesome, Tauriel/Nori/OFC; polyamory; cheerfully aromantic Nori_

It wasn’t like being in love.

Tauriel had never fallen in love, of course (wasn’t sure she wanted to). If she had, she would never have been able to leave the wood and follow adventure in the rest of the world; elves were famous (or infamous among the more fickle race of Men), for loving once and always. Had she ever fallen, there would be no getting up again – and didn’t that make her heart ache when she thought of Legolas and his proudly mortal Gimli.

Didn’t it make her nervous, to think of giving away so much of who she was?

No, Tauriel had never been in love, but she’d seen it every day of her life. Her parents were blessed to still have each other, millennia after their marriage. In the cool dark of the Greenwood, love was ancient and calm. Centuries of familiarity gently transformed two souls into one.

Love was cool and distant and miles away.

\-----

This wasn’t like love because it was hot and messy and immediate.

\-----

They were friends first, born of Nori’s audacity at sitting in on one of her first fittings for the gorgeous dresses Gloin ordered for her to wear in concerts. He’d draped himself across a chair, airily asked permission to remain, and then teased, smirked, and made intelligent observations – all while never once making her feel like she was an object for his viewing pleasure.

Nori was a bad boy and a troublemaker and a connoisseur of semi-legal pipeweed, but he was, in his own odd way, a classic gentleman. He blamed the dichotomy on his brother Dori. “He’s an ass deep down,” Nori told her, passing over a pipe, “but he seems so polite. I’m the opposite.”

His invitation for sex was direct and good-humored. A bit of fun, he said, and a way to relax, and no hard feelings if she said no.

Tauriel didn’t say no. She accepted.

And why not? Her people would be horrified, but she wasn’t in the Greenwood anymore. She wanted new experiences, to escape the staid repetition of two millennia in Thranduil’s realm. 

When clever fingers stroked her to a shuddering climax, the pleasure was sharp and wild and unfamiliar.

She wanted more.

\-----

Tauriel learned a great deal about love when she left the Wood and chose to live among Dwarves and Men.

Love – anyone who saw Fíli and Kíli together for so much as an instant knew they were in love.

For the brothers, love was –

\--intense. 

It was tinged with defiance and a dash of desperation, as Fili and Kíli were tangled so tightly together that she couldn’t imagine one without the other.

Their devotion could be overwhelming.

Tauriel wouldn’t want to lose so much of herself in another person.

Love was bruises and bites and sitting so close that Fíli’s breath would skip and smooth out to match Kíli’s.

\-----

It wasn’t like love because Nori didn’t take or demand parts of her. Tauriel enjoyed his company, laughed often at his sly jokes; but she didn’t feel ripped in half when he wasn’t in the room.

She liked it better that way.

\-----

They would chat afterward – Nori’s adventurous past, Tauriel’s dreams. She learned to find beauty in the green of his eyes and the twist of his smile; he spoke of the smoothness of her skin and the gasp of her voice, the sharp bite of her humor.

Tauriel put knives in Nori’s hands and he learned to throw them. Nori placed his hands on her body, and talked and asked-

Tauriel liked learning her body. She enjoyed learning his.

She wondered about others’.

\-----

By most standards, Bilbo and Bofur had an unusual marriage. As the months slid by, Tauriel never saw them kiss on the lips, or exchange a heated look, despite Bofur’s collection of slightly risqué jokes.

Just walking down the street they drew second glances. First there was Bilbo – a Hobbit? Out of the Shire?! – and the Bofur in his leather and pigtails, something familiar about his mustache and his face.

An odd couple, but so much happier together than apart.

Love was Bilbo’s rare, bright laughter; love was Bofur’s wide grin as his husband fussed over the need for proper vegetables; love was holding hands and bumping elbows and a warm invitation for Tauriel to join them for a night of chatter and Bilbo’s spiced popcorn.

Love was a shared blanket and a comfortable sofa and Bofur hiding a nuzzling nose in Bilbo’s curls.

\-----

It wasn’t love because outside the bedroom they didn’t need cuddles and kisses and someone else finishing their thoughts.

\----

There were nights, blankets in the bed of Nori’s beloved old truck and the sky a sea of stars, when they traded stories of constellations as sweat cooled on their skin.

Nori mentioned another woman, and another – never dishonest about what he wanted, never shy about his history, though she’d come to learn it was as strange for a dwarf as hers was for an elf. Tauriel rolled toward him, chin on his arm, and asked, “Have you ever been with two at once?”

He winked, oddly handsome in the moonlight, and purred, “Why? Interested?”

Tauriel’s heart sped up, and she wondered if her own smile was shaky and nervous or teasing and sharp when she answered, “I might be.”

His smile was a shine of teeth and play, and Tauriel gloried in the freedom of it.

\----

Legolas abandoned the forest, and his father, and, for a time, Tauriel – all for the delicate beginning of love.

Legolas and Gimli didn’t press together or breathe sensuality or murmur endearments. Instead they argued and snarked and one-upped each other as if they were enemies who would hate each other if they just had a chance.

And yet-

Love appeared in soft looks and the flash of Gimli’s teeth among his beard and the playful toss of Legolas’s hair. It shined in the way they walked - Legolas’s every movement shortened for Gimli’s convenience, Gimli’s unacknowledged acceptance of Legolas’s help on stairs or with high shelves.

Love, for Tauriel’s closest friend, was embracing an eternity of loneliness in exchange for a brief dwarf’s lifespan of grouchy affection.

\----

It wasn’t love because Tauriel offered her future to no one and Nori lived only in the moment.

Nori didn’t have to introduce Tauriel to his very human female friend. She was well known to the Heirs, the owner of their favorite coffee shop and a smiling, dry sense of humor. When she saw Nori and Tauriel together, her eyebrows rose.

When Nori, ever direct, explained why they were there, she grinned.

In the moment, there was pleasure – the familiar hard lines of Nori’s square body, the new, soft curves of Astrid’s waist and hip. 

Living in the moment was friendship and sensuality and unlocking what bodies can do.

\-----

Everyone knew Dwalin, huge beast that he was to his fellow Dwarves, had what could only be termed an adorable crush on little, wool-wrapped, opinionated Ori.

Everyone knew, that is, except Ori.

His crush was such a quiet thing: a softening of the lines etched beside Dwalin’s eyes, the way he unconsciously leaned into Ori’s music, the protective shift of his heavy boots at any perceived danger. It was so quiet that Ori, lost in music, couldn’t see it.

The band watched and whispered and gossiped, but Bilbo ordered everyone to leave them be. Time would do her job, he claimed, whatever the outcome may be.

“Do you mind?” Tauriel asked one afternoon, fully dressed and sipping a frothy cappuccino at Astrid’s shop.

“What, Dwalin?” Nori lifted one (absolutely fascinating and surprisingly sensitive) eyebrow, “I don't think I do.” He took a thoughtful sip of his own drink and scratched thoughtfully at the slender elven ankle using his thigh as a perch. “He’s not good enough for Ori, of course, because no one is,” Tauriel giggled at Nori’s matter-of-fact voice, the soft ring of elven laughter drawing a few eyes, “but he’ll do.

“He likes Ori as he is, and he’s loyal. Anyone who can put up with Thorin for decades has to be loyal almost to a fault.” Tauriel felt herself nod agreement, though she felt a bit bad about it. There was something very sad and protective that clung to Thorin, though she didn’t know him well. “He’ll have the kind of devotion Ori needs without smothering him like Dori does. Dwalin likes Ori’s sass.”

He tossed a grin at Astrid, who rolled her eyes but winked at Tauriel. “And he’ll wait,” Nori went on, “until Ori’s ready.” He glanced at Tauriel. “Ori’s a proper Dwarf, not a troublemaker like me.”

Tauriel smiled.

Some people needed that sort of devotion, that tangle of love and self, but she didn’t.

It wasn’t like love. It wasn’t soothing or interdependent or soft or cautious. But it was-

Pleasurable

Rough

Gentle

_Free._

It wasn’t love, but it didn’t need to be.

It was perfect, in this moment, where Tauriel most wanted to be.


	25. Breathtaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FiKi, E Rating

It started at their first real concert, just a little gathering of what amounted to friends and family in a pub near the exterior of the mountain. Nothing extravagant, but still the first time they had performed together for others. 

The first time he’d sat at his drums in the back and watched his brother bring his dream to life in front of an enraptured audience. 

It only got worse after their first single release, as their audiences grew in number and enthusiasm. When their fans – so strange to think the word, but that’s what they were, the band’s emblem on their chests and autograph books in their pockets - knew the song, and sang along, drinking Fíli in as his fingers danced along the strings. 

Kili struggled to control it. He truly did - slow, deep breaths, focusing on his drums, riding the music - but how could he when there was THIS:

Fili, bare arms glistening with a thin layer of sweat, leaning into the music, the lovely arc of his neck peeking out now and again from the thick fall of hair, the tight fit of slippery-soft, worn-in jeans smoothing the shape of his ass. And the audience - the audience watching him, leaning in toward him, gasps of air when he turned one of those slow, teasing smiles on them.

He was _breathtaking._

Of course Kili's body reacted, of course his hands itched to touch and his pants were suddenly too tight.

He thought he hid it well enough, even if his walk had a bit of a hitch in it, and his hands slid to Fíli’s waist as soon as they were alone, his tongue tracing Fíli’s ear as his brother laughed in his arms. Sex afterward was understandable, there was no reason for Fíli to suspect that Kíli was half hard – or more – within minutes of each concert’s start.

He didn’t want Fíli to know. He’d never been embarrassed or ashamed of anything related to Fíli, related to being in love with Fíli, to age-old concepts of One and bursts of possessiveness and Fíli’s skin under his hands. But this-

He should be able to watch Fíli perform for five minutes without wanting to rut against his hips!

No, he thought he’d kept it quiet, kept it secret, spared himself this one great embarrassment.

He was wrong.

Fíli knew.

Kili thought his secret safe until they performed before their biggest crowd yet, several hundred Men and a scattering of dwarves, and the noisiest as well. Some of them shouted for encores and called them by name – called _Fíli_ by name, as he lifted his hair up into a high tail and that was the _cheating_ , because now his shoulders were just _there_ , muscles shifting with every twitch of his bow, and his neck was begging for Kíli’s teeth along the gentle curve.

Kili groaned under his breath as the finished the last song (a second encore, which should have been more exciting and less horrifying than it was, when all he wanted was a moment alone - or better yet, with Fili - somewhere he could get his hands on the body he'd been watching all night).

He closed his eyes as the audience cheered, centering himself, telling his body to _behave_ , they were in _public-_

-and a hand slipped into his.

"Come with me."

Kili's eyes snapped open. "Fili," he said, and maybe his voice was rough, and maybe it was in his face - a sort of shamed desperation at odds with everything he felt about his brother: _comfort_ and _lust_ and _home_ and _love._

Fili's smile softened a bit, though his eyes were mischievous. "Trust me," he murmured, lifting the hand to his face and pressing his lips to the wrist in a feathery kiss.

Kili frowned. "I always trust-"

Laughter in Fili's voice then, warm, "Good. Come on then," and he tugged at Kili's wrist.

Kili followed.

Of course he did.

Kili's lover pulled him behind the small stage, pushing aside silver-black curtains that whispered against Kíli’s bare wrists. 

"What are you doing?" Kíli asked, hard and hot and confused all in one.

Fili grinned at him, oh that one that was so nearly a smirk, and pushed a final curtain to the side to reveal a small sound booth. "Taking care of you," he promised.

Kili felt his face warm. He...that _voice_ only made things worse. "Fili," and he was definitely begging now.

But then Fili's hands were at his waist, and warm breath caressed his mouth. "I know. I know. I saw." A kiss, slow and filled with love and all the illegal vows that lay between them. "You're beautiful." Hands at Kili's waist and a tongue licked his gasp away. "Always."

"You can't-" as Fili slid his belt free, the slide of leather whispering through denim sending a fission of desire up his spine.

"You need this."

"We're-there's people-" There were voices on the other side of the curtains, muffled but rumbling, and- _Mahal_ \- he was so hard his hips moved when he told them not to (right there, right there, all their eyes on Fili but now Fili's hands were on him).

"You want this?"

It was a question that was not a question, because the answer lay in Fili's calloused hand now, thick and heavy. But he would stop immediately-stop and kiss apologies into Kili's skin, if Kili said no.

But he didn't.

He didn't.

"Yeah," he breathed, because he did. Wanted Fili now, like this, voices and music, fingertips tingling from the vibration of his drums, their skin hot and sweaty, their voices rough around the edges.

Fili smiled, and kissed him (gently, so at odds with where they were and what they were doing-) and slid to his knees.

"Fili," Kili breathed, because Fili was _everything_ \- heat and suction, soft wet music and thick hair tangling around his fingertips, rhythm and sex and transformation (from ashamed and embarrassed to this - loved and wanted and hotter than anything, anything-)

He came with a low groan, and maybe someone heard, but he didn't care, because this was his to have, his shining brother on his knees as Kili's hips stuttered and lost their rhythm, braids stroking the delicate sides of his cock as Fili's tongue flickered and drank him down.

When Fili leaned back on his heels (bare shoulders and glistening lips), Kili slid down to join him, licking desperately at Fili's mouth (bitter salt and smiles). "You looked for this," he muttered, "you planned this."

"You needed it," Fili answered as Kili crowded close, kissed his neck, bit down for a moment at slick skin. "And I wanted to see you."

"Do you-?"

"Next time."

Kili shivered and moaned because _yes._

_Next time_. When he could watch his Fili on stage, the vibrations through his boots, the wild abandon of pounding drums, without feeling like he was-

"But now we have to get back out there." Fíli gave him a slow, naughty smile that Kili had never seen outside their bedroom before. "We’ll pretend none of this happened while you're sensitive," clever fingers tucking him away, "and thinking of my mouth with every step."

Kili could only moan as the love of his life hopped to his feet and tugged Kili to his, grinning.


	26. Overwhelmed and Trembling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were trembling, Gimli/Legolas, Dwalin + Ori, Fili/Kili E Rating

Gimli’s hands were trembling.

He was usually so steady, so certain, but now his fingers shook as he traced them over the plastic case of the CD-

_Their_ CD.

Self-titled, black and red, the key like brick, so simple and yet-

It had been five years of work, from that first day when his cousins told him they wanted him to be a part of their dream. Five years to form a band and write the music and make an album. Five years-

Long, delicate fingers closed over his own as Legolas knelt before him.

“A'maelamin,” the elf murmured, and his eyes were too-bright with tears, but maybe so were Gimli’s, though he’d never admit it. 

Gimli cleared his throat. He didn’t know Elvish, only a scattering of words – insults, endearments, this one - _my beloved_ , and his Elf was always overdramatic. “It looks good,” he said, and his voice only shook a little. It looked excellent, actually. He’d helped design the emblem, which called back to the ancient key of Erebor, tucked safely in the mountain’s history museum. 

They’d piss a few people off by using it, but well. Those sort of people needed pissing off. And they’d be a lot hotter about Fíli and Kíli than a group of upstarts usurping a symbol of the people.

Gimli grinned a bit to himself at the thought.

“It does,” Legolas agreed. “I especially like our names on the back.”

Gimli eyed him. “Elven narcissist.”

“Dwarven brat,” Legolas returned, but he was smiling and his eyes were bright, and he turned over the case in Gimli’s hands and traced their fingers together over their names, tucked in close together:

_Gimli Gloinson, lead guitar, vocals_   
_Legolas, bass guitar, vocals_

Gimli was only listed as vocals because he growled more than sang, while Legolas’s voice was too pure-

They only sang together, as one voice, something sweet and something rough, tangled into one, a counterstrike to Tauriel’s soaring vocals.

Gimli blinked rapidly, just twice, because he was a Dwarf and here in his hands was proof that he had a craft, and that craft was something beautiful. 

Proof that this Elf was part of his craft, essential to it, and what could be more Dwarvish than that?

He swallowed and shook his head, just a bit. He was allowed to be a bit overwhelmed, but he didn’t have to make a _show_ of it. He left that sort of nonsense to Fíli and Kíli.

And, alas, his Elf.

Legolas, true to his overwrought elvish nature, lifted the album to his lips and pressed a kiss to the cover.

“You’re going to smudge it!” Gimli yelped, pulling it away, but Legolas only laughed, that musical, elven sound that couldn’t be confused for any other race on Arda. That laugh caught the ear of all who heard it, and usually brought blushes to the cheeks of the Men down in Dale. 

Gimli was sometimes rather possessive of it. All right, always possessive of it – many a Man had suffered under his glare. Just as well – he was the best at earning it.

“I’ll get you another,” Legolas told him, tugging him closer by their joined hands, wrapped around the cover. “I’ll get you a dozen.”

“At least we’ll sell that many then.” Gimli tried for dark sarcasm but came up with delicate hope.

Another laugh, and then a kiss against his lips, light as raindrops and why did Legolas always make Gimli think of forests and rain? “We’ll sell more,” Legolas said without pulling away, breathing the words into Gimli’s skin. “We’ll sell thousands. Millions. There’ll be money, and concerts, and more albums to come, and all that will be nothing next to what this little piece of plastic and metal has already given me.”

Gimli frowned and pulled away enough to look into the blue eyes, clear and too bright to be anything mortal. “What’re you blathering on about, Elf?” he growled, or tried to. It came out more as a whisper.

Legolas smiled, and the sun rose in his face and he was ancient and he was happy. “It gave me you,” he said, and maybe now the smile was a bit smug, and teasing, and he was real again.

Gimli snorted and grumbled and pushed his Elf down, chasing that hint of mortal emotion with his mouth, and the CD was lost as hands fumbled at clothes and bodies tangled, ill-fitted and utterly perfect.

Long legs around his hips and that beautiful, pale body arching under his hands and lube slick between them-

_It gave me you._

“ _Lansele_ ,” Gimli murmured, and Legolas arched and rolled against him, soft skin and hard muscle, a halo of gold around his face as his Elf breathed a translation:

“Love of all loves”

Like the words were music and immortality and life all at once.

\----

Ori’s knees were shaking.

He was fairly certain that once he stepped on stage, every microphone would pick up the tap tap of his knobbly knees, and they’d be louder than Kíli’s drums.

“Kíli will kill me if I mess up the rhythms,” he muttered, because he liked being alive and Kíli could be just a bit terrifying when anything threatened his drum solos.

“I doubt Fíli’d let him,” came a deep voice at his elbow. “He’s a mite protective of you too, though he’d be terribly confused by it all, trying to decide whom to protect.”

Ori, predictably enough, jumped about twelve feet straight up, landing just in time for his knees to start knocking again as he squeaked out, “Dwalin!”

Dwalin looked down at him, his face impassive except for a lift of his eyebrows that Ori had learned, over the last two years, meant he was concerned. Fíli and Kíli swore their cousin was made of stone, but Ori had found him very kind in his gruff way. “Apologies, lad,” their cellist said, patting Ori’s shoulder lightly. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Ori laughed, even if it was a bit on the choked side. “It’s not your fault,” he explained. “Right now a ladybug could startle me.” There was a roar of noise from beyond the curtains, and he swallowed hard. “I’m in a perpetual state, I’m afraid.”

The thick eyebrows went up higher. “You’re nervous?” Dwalin sounded surprised, and Ori couldn’t help feeling a little flush of happiness at that. Most people took one look at him and assumed he was a coward; Dwalin thought he wouldn’t be afraid. He liked it. “You’ve been performing since you were, what? Thirty?”

Ori nodded. “Thirty-three,” he said, surprised Dwalin knew. But Fíli had told him Dwalin knew his work – his old work, playing other people’s music on albums bought by schools and fans of classical music, performed live in front of audiences with an average age of 250. “But that was different. It wasn’t…” he motioned to the curtains.

On the other side were over six thousand people.

Not calm, sedate, overwhelmingly elderly people, clapping politely for the young prodigy; nor was it one of their small, tight pub crowds, singing along and sloshing beer as Heirs moved up in the world.

This was an arena of Dwarves and Men, packed in together, shouting for the concert to begin, chanting their names-

Chanting _his_ name, if not as often as Fíli, Kíli, or Tauriel’s.

Dwalin leaned forward and looked out. “Ah,” he said. “A bit wilder than we’re used to.”

Ori nodded as butterflies took flight in his belly. He wasn’t used to this, hadn’t expected it-

For it all to be a little overwhelming.

“I was scared, the first time I had a solo in the orchestra,” Dwalin said, his voice the low murmur he used when they were in the coffee shop, just the two of them away from the madness of the studio for a bit. “There was a crowd this size, though better behaved, and we were just starting out. It felt like if I made a single mistake, I could make all of Thorin’s hard work crash down on me.” 

Ori nodded eagerly, that was exactly it. “Yes-”

“And I did, you know. I missed a note. I _never_ miss notes.” Dwalin smiled, just a little, and looked down to meet Ori’s eyes. He was tall and so very _broad_ in his modified gray shirt and leather vest. Ori felt especially small next to him in charcoal trousers and coordinated sweater-vest. 

Which wasn’t a bad thing.

Ori…rather liked it.

He’d always liked-ah-tall, broad-

“Well, almost never,” Dwalin finished, “I suppose I should say.”

Ori mentally shook himself back to reality. His mind liked to wander when he was nervous. “What happened?”

Dwalin shrugged. “Nothing. It was fine. There was clapping, we got great reviews, and we picked up some badly needed sponsors. It turned out mistakes aren’t the end of the world.”

Ori bit his lip and nudged forward, peeking out. He felt himself go pale. “This isn’t – this isn’t about other people’s music,” he said, quietly.

“No,” Dwalin agreed. “It’s about yours.”

He reached out, big hands touching Ori’s shoulders and turning him. They had become friends over these long two years, unexpectedly, over coffee and notes and rolling their eyes at Kíli. But Dwalin had never touched him before. The surprise of it made Ori’s poor knocking knees suddenly freeze in shock.

“Ori,” Dwalin said, and his eyes were very blue, very like Fíli’s, “those people are here because of what you created. What you helped create. They’re not going to leave disappointed. They’re going to leave knowing this is a night to remember, that they were here in the beginning.” He smiled, somehow gentle among fierce gray hair and tattoos and scars. “It’s going to be perfect, even if you make a few mistakes.”

Ori breathed.

He took in a slow breath, let it out.

“We created,” he argued, but something in him curled up and calmed as he did so. “All of us.”

Dwalin opened his mouth, to argue no doubt, but Ori gave him a glare that worked wonders on Dori, and was pleased to see Dwalin stop and nod.

“All of us,” he agreed. “Including those two idiots we have to keep from ripping their clothes off onstage. Just think about that horror if you start getting nervous.

They sighed once, together.

And Ori smiled. 

“Let’s go,” he said, and turned.

Then he stopped as another roar went up, and spun, and threw his too-thin arms around Dwalin’s thick waist. “Thank you,” he said, and he knew he was blushing but, well.

He wasn’t shaking anymore.

Dwalin’s rough little, “You’re welcome” was so shocked that Ori laughed.

It was happening.

Heirs of Durin was beginning a true world tour.

All of them, together.

He wasn’t afraid anymore.

\----

Kíli was shaking.

His hands, his shoulders, a low tremble that ran into his neck as he lowered his head and hid behind wild tangles of dark hair. At center stage, Tauriel’s voice soared, to her left Gimli and Legolas’s hands traced over steel strings, behind him Ori’s fingers danced over one of his keyboards, in front of him Fíli – Fíli played, curved his body around his violin and made it sing, but Kíli didn’t move. He didn’t dart back to his drums, wild smiles and sharp laughter. He stood at stage right and _trembled._

On Fíli’s wrists – near-stationary on the left, constantly moving on the right – were a pair of cuffs: deep red leather and flashes of stage lights off the silver rings. He’d walked out with them on in place of his normal leather bracelets, tossed a look over his shoulder when he heard the catch in Kíli’s breath.

And then he’d started to play.

Kíli couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe – his chest heaving (bare, bare, when had he lost his shirt, he couldn’t remember, could only remember heat and lights, too hot in his skin), sweat in his eyes and sliding down his shoulders.

He looked down.

And squeezed his eyes shut.

Thousands. Thousands of people watching him. 

Usually he felt in control on stage, felt high from the noise, from the adoration, from their music and Fíli’s body, but this time, this time he felt raw and exposed-

He shivered.

“Kíli?” 

Oh. _Mahal._

That voice. That voice and something surged in his chest, something like fury and something like lust and something like love, and he almost said it out loud, that he wanted to rip his brother’s clothes off and tie him down and take him in front of five thousand screaming fans. 

He didn’t.

He managed:

“Don’t touch me.”

His voice like glass.

If Fíli touched him, if he said the wrong thing, if he so much as tapped his bow against Kíli’s neck (Awake there, brother?), Kíli would lose it. He’d come on stage in front of thousands without being touched. He’d growl and grab Fíli, break his violin and tie those wrists together with the strings and-

Fuck.

Fíli did this.

Fíli, whom he trusted.

Fíli, who always knew Kíli’s limits, even when Kili didn’t.

Fíli did this.

“Look at me.”

Kíli did, made himself, opened his eyes and didn’t look up but that was worse, because all he could see was Fíli’s wrist and his loose hold on the violin.

That cuff.

He licked his lips. 

“Oh,” his brother’s voice, and there was something tender in it, and regretful. “Okay, all right.” And then Fíli’s hand closed around one of his (shaking, shaking), tightened around his thumb. “Not yet, baby.”

Kíli’s breath caught, and he watched as Fíli motioned to the band with his free hand (flash of lights on the metal rings and the flickering image of the length of chain between them in their bed, in their home, of Fíli pressing them in his hands because I need this), and then pulled, with infinite gentleness, on Kíli’s arm. The others must have reacted, but he didn’t see, unable to look away from red leather and fair skin and strong hands.

Mine, he thought fiercely, felt it more than heard the word in his mind, consuming and possessive. 

Fíli led him off stage, the stage crew scattering with a soft word. Kíli made a point to know every one of them, but now they were nameless faces, because Fíli had worn the cuffs on stage and it had made him-

Possessive.

Wild.

And so hard it hurt to move; even Fíli’s gentle nudges into a tiny alcove hidden in the curtains made him ache.

Kíli lifted his face and wondered what Fíli saw there. Everything, probably, everything, because Fíli knew him better than he knew himself (usually, usually, so why had he pushed so hard, why had he-). He felt wrung out and exhausted, shivering and tight, furious and so deeply in love that it made his heart beat a steady rhythm of Fíli, Fíli, Fíli.

Fíli saw it all.

His eyes were an apology. “Almost baby,” he murmured, “I’ll tell you when you can let go.”

Kíli shuddered as his brother reached up, slipped a hand behind Kíli’s head. He pulled him down, pressed Kíli’s forehead to Fíli’s neck (sweat and a spice of lingering cologne) and Kíli’s hand rose, grabbed at him – one at Fíli’s waist, bare skin under the vest, and the other on his arm. 

“Almost,” a whisper against his ear, the hand on his neck massaging, the other palming his fly open, clever and practiced, too dry as it wrapped around him but hot, hot, and just the right pressure, the splay of fingertips along the vein.

“I love you,” breath in his hair and Kíli keened low in his throat, the sound raw and desperate. Guitars growled on stage, vibrated up the wall and through his back. The curtains shivered. Fíli’s hand moved, a simple one-two stroke. “You can let go now. I’ve got you.”

And Kíli came, barely a touch to his cock, shuddering and shivering and harsh little breaths in rhythm to the pulses over Fíli’s hand. He watched, eyes clouded with lust, as come soaked the fingers that drove their fans to a frenzy, splashed over the cuff (white on red and he groaned again, burrowed his eyes against Fíli’s skin so he couldn’t see anymore, the rhythm of his brother’s heightened heartbeat pulsing against his eyelids). 

Gentle touches, calloused fingers tucking him away, zipping him up, and a soft kiss pressed against Kíli’s temple. 

“We have to go back out,” Fíli said softly, voice warm with concern, and rough in his throat. “We have to finish the concert.”

Kíli shook his head minutely, pressed his eyes harder against Fíli’s neck. But even as he shook his head no, he said, “Yeah.” A rough little laugh. “The show must go on.”

Tauriel was talking to the crowd, her voice booming over the audience like grand bells. 

Kíli lifted his head, a bit dazed, terribly tired, and met Fíli’s eyes. “I’m ready.”

Fíli smiled, not a smirk but a gentle tilt of the lips, a narrowing of the eyes. “You’re sure?”

He wasn’t, they both knew he wasn’t, but Fíli was letting him choose and, “Yeah.”

A kiss, nibbling teeth and a swipe of tongue. “As soon as we’re done here,” Fíli said without pulling his mouth away and every word vibrated along Kíli’s lips in something not quite rhythm, but still music, “I’ll take you back to the hotel and take care of your properly.”

Kíli knew what he meant. He meant sex, of course, proper sex, bare bodies and smiles, a bed, thrusting and pulling and give and take. But he meant, too, asking what had happened, apologizing with his hands and his lips and his body. But Kíli didn’t think he’d ever be able to put it into words, seeing the cuffs on stage. They were famous for using the stage for foreplay, but that had been -

Their private lives laid bare. Fíli’s cuffs, always pressed in Kíli’s hands, always asked for, absolute trust and need and it had been -

It had been possessiveness, a moment where Kíli was strangely and abruptly sick of sharing Fíli with thousands, with dozens, even with their small family. It had been lust, shocking and powerful, shivering along his spine and through his arms to his drums, tearing through the air. It had been memories, Fíli hot around him, low grunts with each thrust, the glimmer of chain and the slide of lined leather. It had been love, because Fíli was his and he was Fíli’s, and the tattoos said that, yes, but they were there forever, immovable, while the cuffs were a choice, a choice every time, a message: I’m yours, you’re mine, I trust you, I need you, from this centered, powerful dwarf who looked as if he never needed anything, but he always, always needed Kíli. 

Kíli was never able to explain it.

But Fíli knew anyway.

\------

Gimli fingers tapped agitated rhythms against the box in his hands as he waited outside his cousins' door.

It was Gimli, poor Gimli ( _You know them best! They’re your cousins!_ As if that was somehow his fault), who was dispatched the morning after Kíli’s…problem… with doughnuts and a scowl to the brothers’ door.

“They can’t just wander off like that,” Dwalin had insisted with his most fearsome snarl, and “Bad for business!” Gimli’s father had growled, “We’re lucky no one wanted a refund with the way he played when he came back out!” and, “Thank goodness Tauriel can run her mouth so well, who knew?” from a greatly amused Bofur, but, “It was really quite awkward for everyone,” from Bilbo, so they all bullied and calmly convinced and forcefully coerced until Gimli somehow agreed to go against his will and have a “talk” with Fíli and Kíli. 

He knocked.

Fíli opened the door. His hair was a loose mess and he was shirtless, which forced his poor younger cousin to stare at the various mouth-shaped bruises all over his shoulders. Which no cousin wants to see. 

Ugh.

_Cousins._

“I’ve been sent to tell you never to wear those,” _handcuffs_! His mind yelled, only smoothly and in Legolas’s amused elvish voice, the ass, “bracelets. Again.” 

It had been Legolas who identified the . . . bracelets . . . as the issue after Fíli had tugged Kíli off stage for several very inconvenient minutes, only to come back with a Kíli who looked like he could fall asleep standing up.

“You’ve been thinking about it entirely too much,” Gimli had growled at his elf, and his elf had laughed right in his face, all bells and sunshine. 

_Elves!_

Fíli leaned in the doorway. “I wear bracelets every day,” he said, but he was definitely smirking now, and he knew _exactly_ what Gimli meant.

_Cousins_ were the only thing worse than _elves._

Gimli didn’t bother pointing out that he wasn’t playing that game.

He just glared.

“If ye don’t agree, I’m to take them,” he snarled, and he could growl with the best of them, much better than these two, elders or no. “And I will.”

Fíli laughed, uncrossed his arms, and said, “I’d invite you in to snatch them, but Kíli’s still asleep and,” he glanced down at himself with a little grin, “in worse shape than me. So I’ll take pity on you and agree.” He lifted his hands, held them together (dear Mahal, there were . . . there were very faint signs of bruising and a hint of teeth marks on the right one), “I promise, no more cuffs on stage.”

He said “cuffs” in a voice more appropriate to pornography than doorway conversations with mistreated members of the family.

“I’m not asleep,” came a low voice and then Kíli was there and he couldn’t even be bothered to-

“You could have _gotten dressed!_ ” Gimli snapped, fighting the urge to redirect his eyes upward. He was too stubborn to be embarrassed. He’d be pissed instead.

Kíli glanced down at his too-trim hips, where there were clearly faint scratch marks which Gimli Would not Think About, and said, “You’ve seen it before. I don’t see the problem.” Then he wrapped his arms around Fíli from behind and rested his cheek against his brother’s hair. His thumbs hooked in the front of the sweats Fíli (being a kinder dwarf) had pulled on. This caused them to tug down a bit at the waist and revealed more golden-brown curls than Gimli ever wanted to see.

Kíli smiled at him.

Sunnily.

And nipped the top of Fíli’s ear.

(His _ear_ what was this _softcore porn_?!)

Gimli glared at him, shoved the pastry box at Fíli’s belly (was that – no, he wasn’t going to think about it, Fíli just needed to take a shower _right now)_ , and slammed the door with a satisfying crack.

He stomped off down the hall to his own room.

He was going to need to clean his brain out with soap.


	27. It Was/I Love You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't always about sex.

\---IT WAS---

But it wasn't always about wild sex, about cuffs and nails, hard fucks against walls or quick blowjobs in a hidden corner. Sometimes it was this:

going to bed way too early to sleep, streaming horrible disaster films, listening to Kíli argue the science (all those scattered courses not resulting in a degree but certainly giving him more ammunition for attacking inane films) and laughing until it hurt, playful kisses during the credits that turned into almost lazy groping.

It was mornings when they had nowhere to be, took showers and got right back in bed, wrestling for position before settling in for long, thorough kisses and rolling hips, Fíli's hands on his brother's lovely backside to keep the slow rhythm. 

It was afternoons with Kíli spread out on the bed amongst the crumbs of contraband cookies, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling with laughter, Fíli kissing him on a chuckle to feel the joy vibrating on his brother's lips.

It was a hand on the small of Kíli's back, the way it still made his eyes widen a bit, the way he'd try to curve his body into Fíli's with a little sound of disappointment because he'd never accept he was too tall to pull it off.

It was looking through old family photos (watching Kíli grown up all over again) while pretending he was working, peeking over the laptop and watching Kíli deep in conversation with someone – this strange little family they’d built, that either would die for, though they couldn’t imagine why they’d ever have to - grinning and talking a little too-loud in his enthusiasm, charming everyone just by being himself.

It was Kíli pounding rhythms on the table, on the floor, on the wall, making his points with his hands and the drumsticks that lived in his back pocket or his hands, never quite out of reach.

It was Kíli trembling and bare, so responsive to every touch, and occasionally remembering to glare and growl _don't call me baby_ even as the skin under Fíli's hands shivered at the word (they both knew he'd never stop).

It was pressing into his brother's body, Kíli arching to take him, for once not demanding but just reacting, soft moans and words spilling unknowing from his lips: _Fíli_ and _brother_ and _love_ and _yes_ and _so close_ and _don't go, don't stop, stay here,_ more beautiful than anything he could create on his violin.

It was Kíli's hands in his hair, standing behind him as they listened to a recording of their band, their dream, fidgety fingers weaving braid after braid before smoothing them out, always in unconscious synch with the beat of the song curling in the air around them.

It was the taste of ale on Kíli's tongue, sweat on the column of his throat, little bites and a touch of suction to leave a mark _this is mine, this is mine._

It was being on stage surrounded by hundreds of people – thousands of people, by the band, but standing next to Kíli, meeting that wild grin with a slow smirk, the pounding drums and soaring violin a countermelody to Kíli's laughter.

It was Kíli falling asleep on the bus, curling up in too small a space just to have his head in Fíli's lap, sleepy orders for petting so he'd sleep better and deeper.

It was Kíli bending over him, fucking himself slowly, eyes dark and lips parted, leaning in to lick at his lips and murmur about _love_ and _so good in me, Fíli_ as he rocked too-slow-but-so-good, tangling his hand in Fíli’s hair and shuddering along every muscle.

It was waking up in the middle of the night under too many blankets and too much brother, Kíli's head heavy on his shoulder and his leg pressing down on Fíli's bladder, trying to figure out how to pull of his necessary escape without waking Kíli up (or just tossing him to the side, if it was hot enough in the room, and listening to the sleepy complaints he earned).

It was Kíli on top of him, inside him, Kíli everywhere, his scent and his taste and his voice and his cock, bliss on his little brother's face as he moved with exquisite slowness because _I want to stay like this forever, Fíli,_ and feeling exactly the same.

It was Kíli laughing with Tauriel and teasing Gimli and quizzing Dori for stories about Ori and making bets about Dwalin and trying, trying, trying, to make it like it used to be with Thorin. And somehow, magically, sometimes it was.

It was the look on Kíli's face as ink sunk into their wrists, side-by-side, like Fíli had just offered him the world and he couldn't believe he could just reach out and take it ( _you’ve always had it, baby, always_ ).

\---I LOVE YOU---

_I love you_ awkward and blushing on their first date, hand-in-hand and drawing eyes, Fíli’s smirk when he buys cotton candy in a ridiculous shade of blue. It melts on his tongue just as his brother’s mouth finds his, and he barely hears the gasps of disapproval and the click of cameras.

_I love you_ soothing and a little smug, digging fingers in along Fíli’s spine, across his sore shoulders. Fili knows how to play without hurting himself, but not for hours and hours, and whydid Kíli take that class in massage if not for this?

_I love you_ in shaking fingertips, nervous and slick and terrified of causing pain but _no baby, you in me_ because if it could hurt Fíli insists on being first, then the slide in and Fíli’s wince but so hot and so tight and-

_I love you_ wrapped in laughter, wet kisses and splashing and near-drowning they bring on themselves, tucked away in a private lake and far away from the world. His fingers slide over wet skin and through wet hair as Fíli tucks him close and it’s all awkward thrusts and chuckles and yelps when they lose their footing and go under.

_I love you_ all on a moan, a low growl, demanding and pushing as he shoves back and takes his brother _deeper_ pulls his brother _harder_ , the rhythmic slap of skin and those beautiful grunts that pass Fíli’s lips every time he hits deep – right there, right there, nails in his skin and flashes of pain and so good-

_I love you_ through his hands on Fíli’s hips, standing close behind him, brush of hair on his cheek as Fíli talks, his voice intense, about _elven melodies_ and _dwarf rhythm_ s, about his violin and Kíli’s drums and Gimli’s guitar, about full orchestras and metal bands, as the most famous lyricist in Arda sits and listens with fascinated eyes. 

_I love you_ a whisper as he sets coffee (heavy cream, no sugar) at Fíli’s fingertips, ink-stained from that final, hand-drawn copy of a song about passion, about war, about survival. All he earns is a quick smile but it’s enough, the only thing that’s drawing Fíli out for a moment is Kíli’s touch and Kíli’s voice. 

_I love you_ a breath, peppering kisses across his brother’s shoulders, Fíli on his belly with his arms above him, chain linking his cuffs (deep red and beautiful against Fíli’s wrists) to each other, to the headboard, body relaxed and pliant for the first time in days, except the pulling, flexing muscles across his shoulders. Kíli take his pleasure and thrusts, thrusts, knows the angle and every sound that falls from Fíli’s lips when he hits just right and then _baby yes-_

_I love you_ in a hidden smile as he flips a knitted blanket over his brother’s sleeping form, curled up in the too-big Man-sized chair in their studio. Fíli’s adorable like this; face all squashed in sleep and hair a bit of a mess, though Kíli’d never say it out loud without getting a fair pounding for his trouble.

_I love you_ soaring through his fingers, pounding through his drums, crashes of cymbals and pure adoration as he stares at his brother’s back, as Fíli drives the crowd into a frenzy with his vision. A thousand people, more, screaming and dancing and singing as if Fíli’s hands were on them, driving them on, and not on the singing strings of a violin.

_I love you_ thrumming along his tongue as he sucks his brother off backstage, steady strokes and Fíli’s free hand in his hair – the other grasping their award for best new song - swallowed groans as the floor vibrates with canned music and excited voices, until there’s warmth and salt and bitter and perfect, exploding across his tongue as his brother whispers his name.

_I love you_ when he can’t move, too awed as the light comes up in Erebor and an orchestra – an entire _orchestra_ – only breathes and moves and plays when Fíli’s violin allows it. Fierce and confident, wild and disciplined, and this is the Fíli who could have been a king.

_I love you_ as their family gathers – this family of dwarves and elves and outcasts and hobbit – and they gather around Fíli, returning his devotion for turning them into this, for helping them find each other, and Kíli is so proud his heart aches with it.

_I love you_ against the tender skin of Fíli’s left wrist, half an emblem continued on Kíli’s right, a vow in skin and ink, a fuck you to the laws that say they can’t have this, this forever, this every day by each other’s sides. _I love you_ again and again as Fíli tugs him down, as he says it too, with his lips and his tongue and his fingertips: _brother_ and _partner_ and _lover_ and _husband_ and _mine_.

**Author's Note:**

> [Blanket Permission Statement](http://dragonsquill.tumblr.com/permission)


End file.
